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^.: 


ADVENTURES 
AND  ENTHUSIASMS 

E.     V.     LUCAS 


Other  Books  of  E.  V.  LUCAS 


ENTERTAINMENTS 
v^rena  in  the  midst 
tke  vermilion  box 
landmarks 
kistener's  lure 
mr.  ingleside 

OVER    BEMERTON'S 
LONDON  LAVENDER 

ESSAYS 

CLOUD  AND  SILVER 
A   BOSWELL   OF   BAGHDAD 
TWIXT   EAGLE  AND  DOVE 
THE  PHANTOM  JOURNAL 
LOITEREr'S  HARVEST 
ONE  DAY  AND  ANOTHER 
FIRESIDE  AND  SUNSHINE 
CHARACTER  AND  COMEDY 
OLD  LAMPS  FOR  NEW 

, TRAVEL 

A  WANDERER   IN  VENICE 
A   WANDERER    IN   PARIS 
A  WANDERER    IN  LONDON 
A  WANDERER   IN  HOLLAND 
A  WANDERER   IN   FLORENCE 
MORE  WANDERINGS   IN 

LONDON 
HIGHWAYS  AND   BYWAYS  IN 

SUSSEX 


ANTHOLOGIES 

THE  OPEN  ROAD 
THE  FRIENDLY  TOWN 
HER   INFINITE   VARIETY 
GOOD  COMPANY 
THE  GENTLEST  ART 
THE  SECOND  POST 
THE   BEST   OF   LAMB 
REMEMBER   LOUVAIN 

BOOKS  FOR  CHILDREN 

THE  SLOWCOACH 
ANNE'S  TERRIBLE  GOOD 

NATURE 
A  BOOK  OF  VERSES  FOR 

CHILDREN 
ANOTHER  BOOK  OF  VERSES 

FOR  CHILDREN 
RUNAWAYS  AND  CASTAWAYS 
FORGOTTEN  STORIES  OF  LONG 

AGO 
MORE  FORGOTTEN  STORIES 
THE  "ORIGINAL  VERSES"  OF 

ANN  AND  JANE  TAYLOR 

SELECTED  WRITINGS 

A   LITTLE  OF   EVERYTHING 
HARVEST  HOME 
VARIETY   LANE 
MIXED   VINTAGES 


ADVENTURES 

AND 

ENTHUSIASMS 

BY 

E.  V.    LUCAS 


NEW  xB^  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,    1920, 
BY    GEORGE    H.   DORAN    COMPANY 


PRINTED    IN   THE    UNITED    STATES   OF   AMERICA 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

The  Pebfect  Guest  ......       13 

The  Spabhows'  Friend 17 

The  Golden  Eagle .20 

A  Morning  Call        ......       26 

The  True  Wiz.\rd  of  the  North       ...       30 
Innocence  and  Impulse      .....       42 

Possessions         .......       45 

Drake  and  His  Game         .....       49 

Admirals  All — To  be         .  .  .  .  .56 

A  Study  in  Symmetry         .  .  .  .  .61 

Davy  Jones        .......       66 

The  Man  of  Ross 71 

The  Innocent's  Progress  ....       85 

Thoughts  at  the  Ferry     .....       92 

A  Little  Child  ......       97 

A  Devonshire  Inn     .         .         .         .         .         .103 

On  Shops  and  Stalls  .         ...         .         .     107 

Third  Thoughts         .         .         .         .         .         .113 

The  Italian  Qubstign        .....     118 

[V] 


203209 


Contents 


On  Disguise 
Broken  English 

Enthusiasts 
Telephonics 
The  World  Remedial 
What  the  Sun  Did  Not  See 
Two  OF  Martha's  Sons 
Freaks  of  Memory    . 
The  Moral  Dressing-Table 
Thackeray's  School  Fellow 
In  re  Physiognomy 
I    Identification 
II    Dr.  Sullivan 
The  World's  Desire 
A  Conqueror     . 
'i'HE  Newness  of  the  Old 
Aunts 

On  Recitations 
Clicquot  Well  Won 
The  Sufferer    . 
A  South  Sea  Bubble 
On  Finding  Things    . 
Punctuality 
The  Other  Two 
On  Secret  Passages 
[Vi] 


Contents 


Little  Miss  Banks 
Gentlemen  Both 
On  Epitaphs 


IN  AND  ABOUT  LONDON 

I  A  London  Thrill 

II  A  Door  Plate  . 

Ill  Angel  Advocacy 

IV  The  Soane  Hogarths 

V  Greenwich  Hospital 

VI  Kew  in  April  . 

VII  Royal  Windsor 

VIII  Three  Little  Backwaters 

IX  A  Self-Made  Statue 

X  Crowds  and  a  Bad  Samaritan 

XI  Before  and  After    . 

XII  The  Green  Among  the  Grey 

XIII  The  Fatherly  Force 

XIV  My  Friend  Flora     . 


page 

248 

251 
255 


263 
268 
273 
277 
281 
285 
28  ^ 
29e 
297 
30i 
306 
311 
318 
325 


[vii] 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

Lauka's  Early  MoR^aNG  Lessons       .  Frontispiece 

PAGE 

Laura  Rises  for  the  Day          ....  44 

Laur.\  Combines  Breakfast  and  Philanthropy  84 

Laura's  Music  Lesson        .....  96 

Laura  Visits  the  Sick        .....  140 

Laura  Dances  to  Her  Mother's  Music     .         .  222 


[ix] 


ADVENTURES  AND   ENTHUSIASMS 


ADVENTURES  AND 
ENTHUSIASMS 

THE  PERFECT  GUEST 

THERE  are  certain  qualities  that  we  all 
claim.  We  are  probably  wrong,  of  course, 
but  we  deceive  ourselves  into  believing  that, 
short  as  we  may  fall  in  other  ways,  we  really 
can  do  this  or  that  superlatively  well.  "I'll 
say  this  for  myself,"  we  remark,  with  an  ap- 
proving glance  in  the  mirror,  "at  any  rate 
I'm  a  good  listener";  or,  "Whatever  I  may 
not  be,  I'm  a  good  host."  These  are  things 
that  may  be  asserted  of  oneself,  by  oneself, 
without  undue  conceit.  "I  pride  myself  on 
being  a  wit,"  a  man  may  not  say;  or  "I  am 
not  ashamed  of  being  the  handsomest  man  in 
London;"  but  no  one  resents  the  tone  of  those 
other  arrogations,  even  if  their  truth  is  de- 
nied. 

It  is  less  common,  although  also  unobjection- 
able, to  hear  people  felicitate  with  themselves 

[13] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

on  being  good  guests.  Indeed,  I  have  lately 
met  two  or  three  who  quite  impenitently  asserted 
the  reverse;  and  I  believe  that  I  am  of  their 
company.  Trying  very  hard  to  be  good  I 
can  never  lose  sight  of  the  fact  that  my  host's 
house  is  not  mine.  Fixed  customs  must  be  sur- 
rendered, lateness  must  become  punctuality, 
cigarette  ends  must  not  burn  the  mantelpiece, 
one  misses  one's  own  China  tea.  The  bath- 
room is  too  far  and  other  people  use  it.  There 
is  no  hook  for  the  strop.  In  short,  to  be  a 
really  good  guest  and  at  ease  under  alien  roofs 
it  is  necessary,  I  suspect,  to  have  no  home  ties 
of  one's  own;  certainly  to  have  no  very  tj^ran- 
nical  liabits. 

I  cut  recently  from  the  Spectator  this  rhymed 
analysis  of  the  perfect  guest: 

She  answered,  by  return  of  post. 
The  invitation  of  her  host; 
She  caught  the  train  she  said  she  would. 
And  changed  at  junctions  as  she  should; 
She  brought  a  small  and  lightish  box. 
And  keys  belonging  to  the  locks. 
Food,  rare  and  rich,  she  did  not  beg. 
But  ate  the  boiled  or  scrambled  egg; 
When  offered  lukewarm  tea  she  drank  it, 
And  did  not  crave  an  extra  blanket. 
Nor  extra  pillows   for  her  head; 
She  seemed  to  like  the  spare-room  bed. 
She  brought  her  own  self-filling  pen, 
And  always  went  to  bed  at  ten. 
[14] 


The  Perfect  Guest 

She  left  no  little  things  behind, 
But  stories  new  and  gossip  kind. 

Those  verses  seem  to  me  to  cover  the  ground, 
although  one  might  want  a  change  here  and 
there.  For  example,  would  a  little  spice  of 
malice  in  her  anecdotage  be  so  undesirable? 
And  a  little  less  meekness  in  the  lady,  who  comes 
out  rather  as  a  poor  relation,  might  do  no  harm. 
They  also  might  emphasize  the  point  that  she 
was  never  indisposed,  for  it  is  an  mipardonable 
offence  in  a  guest  to  be  ill;  that  she  spent  a 
great  deal  of  time  in  writing  letters  (which  all 
hostesses  like  their  guests  to  do)  ;  and  that  on 
returning  home  she  sat  down  and  composed  a 
"roofer"  in  the  warmest  possible  terms.  They 
might  touch  lightly  but  feelingly  on  her  readi- 
ness not  only  to  eat  what  was  offered,  and  not 
to  desire  luxuries,  but  to  refuse  the  rarities, 
such  as,  in  recent  times,  bacon  and  butter  and 
sugar.  ("Oh,  no,  I  never  take  butter!" — what 
grateful  words  to  fall  on  a  hostess's  ear !)  One 
would  not,  however,  have  one's  guest  a  vege- 
tarian, because  that  way  distraction  lies.  If 
vegetarians  ate  vegetables  all  might  be  well,  but 
they  don't;  they  want  made  dishes  of  an  exotic 
nature,  or  hostesses  think  they  do,  and  then  the 
cook  gives  notice.  The  verses  might  also  refer 
to  the  perfect  guest's  easy  flow  of  conversation 
when    neighbouring    bores    call;    and    last — but 

[15] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

how  far  from  least !— they  might  note  the  gen- 
uine ring  in  her  voice  when  she  volunteers  to  do 
a  little  weeding. 

But  the  lines,  as  far  as  they  go,  are  compre- 
hensive; their  defect  is  that  they  deal  with  but 
one  type — a  woman  visiting  in  the  country. 
There  is  also  to  be  considered  the  woman  from 
the  country  visiting  in  town,  who,  to  be  perfect, 
must  not  insist  too  strongly  on  her  own  choice  of 
play,  must  not  pine  inordinately  for  dances,  and 
must  not  bring  more  frocks  than  her  hostess  can 
keep  pace  with.  Mention  of  the  hostess  reminds 
me  that  it  is  by  a  hostess  that  the  verses  obvi- 
ously were  written,  and  that,  as  such,  they  leave 
apertures  which  the  arrows  of  censure  might 
penetrate  if  we  were  considering  the  perfect 
hostess  too.  For  how  could  the  poet,  for  all 
her  epigrammatic  conciseness,  ever  have  given 
her  exemplary  friend  the  opportunity  of  drink- 
ing lukewarm  tea?  In  any  catalogue  of  the 
perfect  hostess's  virtues  a  very  high  place  must 
be  reserved  for  that  watchfulness  over  the  tea- 
pot and  the  bell  that  prevents  such  a  possibility. 
And  the  perfect  hostess  is  careful,  by  providing 
extra  blankets,  to  make  craving  for  more  un- 
necessary. She  also  places  by  the  bed  biscuits, 
matches,  and  a  volume  either  of  O.  Henry  or 
"Saki,"  or  both. 

[16] 


THE  SPARROWS'  FRIEND 

IP'  you  entered  the  Tuileries  any  fine  morning^ 
(and  surely  the  sun  always  shines  in  Paris, 
does  it  not?)  by  the  gate  opposite  Fremiet's 
golden  arrogant  Joan  of  Arc,  and  turned  into 
the  gardens  opposite  the  white  Gambetta  mem- 
orial, you  were  certain  to  see  a  little  knot  of 
people  gathered  around  an  old  gentleman  in  a 
black  slouch  hat,  with  a  deeply  furrowed  melan- 
choly face,  a  heavy  moustache,  and  the  big 
comfortable  slippers  of  one  who  (like  so  many 
a  wise  Frenchman)  prefers  comfort  to  conven- 
tionality or  the  outraged  opinion  of  others.  All 
about  him,  pecking  among  the  grass  of  the 
little  enclosed  lawns,  or  in  the  gravel  path  at 
his  feet,  or  fluttering  up  to  his  hands  and  down 
again,  were  sparrows — les  moineaux:  for  this 
was  M.  Pol,  the  famous  " Channeur  d'oiseaux." 
There  is  a  certain  attraction  about  Notre 
Dame,  its  gloom,  its  purple  glass  and  its  his- 
tory; Sainte  Chapelle  is  not  without  a  polished 
beauty ;  the  Louvre  contains  a  picture  or  two  and 
a  statue  or  two  that  demand  to  be  seen  and  seen 
again;   but   this   old   retired   civil   servant   with 

[17] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

the  magic  power  over  the  gamins  of  the  Parisian 
roadways  and  chimney-stacks  was  far  more  mag- 
netic to  many  a  tourist.  Those  other  of  Bae- 
deker's lions  were  permanent  and  would  endure, 
but  a  frowsy  furrowed  old  man  in  scandalous 
footwear  who  not  only  charmed  the  sparrows 
but  quite  clearly  had  confidential  understand- 
ings with  each  was  a  marvel  indeed  and  not 
to  be  missed.  Notre  Dame's  twin  towers  on 
eacli  side  of  tliat  miracle  of  a  rose  window 
would  be  there  next  time;  but  would  j\I.  Pol.'* 
That  is  how  we  reasoned. 

We  did  well  to  see  him  as  often  as  we  could, 
for  he  is  now  no  more;  he  died  in  I9I8. 

For  some  time  the  old  man  had  been  missing 
from  his  accustomed  haunts,  through  blindness, 
and  Death  found  him  at  his  home  at  Chandon- 
Lagache,  in  the  midst  of  the  composition  of 
rhymes  about  his  little  friends,  which  had  long 
been  his  hobby,  and  took  him  quite  peacefully. 

I  have  stood  by  M.  Pol  for  hours,  hoping  to 
acquire  something  of  his  mystery;  but  these 
things  come  from  within.  He  knew  many  of 
tlie  birds  by  name,  and  he  used  to  level  terrible 
charge.T  against  them,  as  facetious  uncles  do 
with  little  nephews  and  nieces;  but  more  French 
in  character,  that  is  all.  One  very  innocent 
mite — or  as  innocent  as  a  Paris  sparrow  can  be 
— was  branded  as  L'Alcoolique.  Never  was  a 
[18] 


The  Sparrows'  Friend 

bird  less  of  an  inebriate,  but  no  crumb  or 
grain  could  it  get  except  upon  the  invitation, 
"Viens,  prendre  ton  Pernod!"  Another  was 
Marguerite,  saucy  baggage ;  another.  La  Com- 
tesse;  another,  L' Anglais,  who  was  addressed 
in  an  approximation  to  our  own  tongue.  Now 
and  then  among  the  pigmies  a  giant  pigeon 
would  greedily  stalk:  welcome  too.  But  it 
was  with  his  sparrows  that  M.  Pol  was  at  his 
best — remonstrative,  minatory,  caustic;  but  al- 
ways humorous,  always  tender  beneath. 

Latterly  he  sold  a  postcard  now  and  then, 
with  himself  photographed  on  it  amid  verses  and 
birds;  but  that  was  a  mere  side  issue.  Often 
strangers  would  engage  him  in  conversation,  and 
he  would  reply  with  the  ready  irony  of  France; 
but  he  displayed  little  interest.  His  heart  was 
with  those  others.  One  felt  that  the  more  he 
saw  of  men  the  more  he  liked  sparrows. 

The  French  have  a  genius  for  gay  commem- 
orative sculpture.  If  a  statue  of  M.  Pol  were 
set  up  on  the  scene  of  his  triumphs  (and  many 
things  are  less  likely),  with  little  bronze  moine- 
aux  all  about  him,  I  for  one  should  often  make 
it  an  object  of  pilgrimage. 


[193 


THE  GOLDEN  EAGLE 

MR.  GEORGE  ROBEY,  C.B.E.,  our  soi- 
disant  Prime  Minister  of  Mirth,  is,  in 
his  songs,  as  a  rule,  more  of  a  destructive  than 
a  reassuring  philosopher.  Indeed,  the  cheer- 
ful cynicism  of  one  whose  prosperity  is  invulner- 
able may  be  said  to  be  his  prevailing  charac- 
teristic on  the  stage.  But  he  once  sang,  in  the 
person  of  a  landlady,  a  song  which  had  tlie  re- 
frain, calculated  to  comfort  those  in  less  happy 
circumstances,  "It's  a  blessing  that  you  never 
miss  the  things  you've  never  had."  Upon  the 
respective  merits  of  this  sentiment  and  of  Ten- 
nyson's famous  dictum  "  'Tis  better  to  have 
loved  and  lost  than  never  to  have  loved  at  all" 
much  might  be  said  in  discussion,  although  the 
two  statements  are  not  antagonistic;  but  at  the 
moment,  thinking  of  my  poor  friend  the  Golden 
Eagle,  I  vote  wholly  for  Mr.  Robey's  optimism. 
It  is  a  blessing  that  we  never  miss  the  things 
we've  never  had,  and,  conversely,  it  is  a  real 
calamity  to  lose  something  and  be  unable  to  for- 
get it  or  to  cease  to  regret  it.  In  other  words, 
it  is  better  not  to  have  had  a  treasure  than,  being 
[20] 


The   Golden  Eagle 

parted  from  it,  to  be  eternally  wistful.  Better, 
that  is,  for  unwilling  auditors  of  the  tragedy. 

So  much  for  prelude. 

It  is  a  hard  thing  to  be  credited  with  power 
that  one  does  not  possess  and  have  to  disappoint 
a  simple  soul  who  is  relying  on  one's  help. 
That  is  a  general  projDosition,  but  I  was  re- 
minded of  the  Golden  Eagle  and  a  particular 
application  of  it  by  the  remark  which  some  one 
dropped  the  other  day  about  Baedeker.  "Shall 
those  of  us  who  have  kept  our  Baedekers  have 
the  courage  to  carry  them?"  she  asked;  and  in- 
stantly my  mind  flew  to  a  certain  Italian  city 
and  the  host  of  the  Aquila  d'Oro. 

Never  can  any  guest  in  a  hotel  have  received 
so  much  attention  from  the  host  as  I  did  in  the 
few  days  of  my  sojourn  with  him  before  I  could 
bring  myself  to  change  to  another.  And  not 
only  from  the  host,  but  from  every  one  on  tlie 
staff,  who  bent  earnest  glances  on  me  from 
morning  till  night.  The  Golden  Eagle  himself, 
however,  did  more  than  that:  he  buttonholed  me. 
He  was  always  somewhere  near  the  door  when 
I  went  out  and  again  when  I  came  in:  a  large, 
flabby  Italian,  usually  in  his  shirt  sleeves  and 
wearing  the  loose  slippers  that  strike  such  dis- 
may into  British  travellers.  "No  foreigner," 
said  an  acute  young  observer  to  me  recently, 
"ever  has  a  good  dog";  not  less  true  is  it  that 

[21] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

no  Latin  is  ever  soundly  shod.  But  the  Golden 
Eagle  was  not  exactly  slovenly ;  he  owed  it  to  his 
hotel  not  to  be  that;  he  was  merely  a  vigilant 
padrone  eternally  concerned  with  his  business. 

Although  there  were  other  people  staying 
under  his  roof,  and  they  had  better  rooms  than  I 
and  drank  a  better  wine,  it  was  I  at  whom 
he  made  this  set.  It  was  I  for  whom  he  waited 
and  upon  whom  his  great  melancholy  eyes  rested 
so  wistfully.  For  he  was  a  Golden  Eagle  with 
a  grievance,  and  I,  in  whose  bedroom  he  had 
been  asked  to  place  a  writing-table,  I,  who 
never  went  out  without  a  note-book  and  who 
bought  so  many  photographs,  I,  who  so  ob- 
viously was  engaged  in  studying  the  city,  no 
doubt  for  the  purposes  of  a  book,  I  it  was  who 
beyond  question  was  in  a  position,  by  removing 
that  grievance,  to  restore  him  to  prosperity  and 
placidity  again. 

And  his  grievance?  The  melancholy  stamped 
upon  that  vast  white  countenance,  although 
much  of  it  was  temperamental,  and  you  might 
say  national  (for  the  Italian  features  in  repose 
suggest  disillusionment  and  fatalism  far  oftener 
than  light-heartedness),  and  the  dejection  in  tlie 
great  shoulders,  were  due  to  the  same  cause. 
Baedeker,  after  years  of  honourable  mention  of 
the  Aquila  d'Oro  among  the  hotels  of  the  city, 
had  suddenly,  in  the  last  edition,  removed  the 
[22] 


The   Golden  Eagle 

asterisk  against  the  name.  The  Golden  Eagle 
had  lost  his  star.  Now  you  see  the  connection 
between  this  pathetic  innkeeper  (the  last  man  in 
the  world  to  call  Boniface),  our  triumphant 
lion  comique  and  the  late  Lord  Tennyson.  But 
in  his  case  it  was  not  better,  either  for  him  or 
me,  that  he  had  lost  what  he  had  loved.  It 
would  have  been  better,  both  for  him  and  for 
me,  if  he  had  never  had  a  star. 

Why  it  had  been  taken  from  him  he  had  no 
notion.  He  had  always  done  his  best;  his  wife 
had  done  her  best;  people  were  satisfied  and 
came  again ;  but  the  star  had  gone.  Was  not  his 
hotel  clean  ?  The  linen  was  soft,  the  attendance 
was  good.  He  himself — as  I  could  perceive, 
could  I  not.^ — never  rested,  nor  did  his  wife. 
They  personally  superintended  all.  They  spared 
nothing  for  the  comfort  of  the  house.  Foolish 
innkeepers  no  doubt  existed  who  were  cheese- 
parers,  but  not  he.  He  knew  that  wherever  else 
economy  was  wise,  it  was  not  in  the  dining-room. 
Were  not  the  meals  generous  and  diversified.'' 
Could  I  name  a  more  abundant  collazione  at 
4  lire  or  a  better  pranzo  at  5  ?  Or  served  with 
more  despatch  }  Was  not  his  wine  sound  and  far 
from  dear? 

And  yet,  four  years  ago,  and  all  inexplicably, 
the  star  had  gone  from  his  hotel.     It  was  mon- 

[23] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

strous,   an   outrage.      Four   years    ago — without 
warning  and  for  no  cause. 

When  he  had  looked  at  the  new  edition  of 
Baedeker  which  a  visitor  had  left  about  and  saw 
it,  he  could  not  believe  his  eyes.  He  had  called 
his  wife — every  one:  they  also  were  incredulous. 
It  was  like  a  thunderbolt,  an  earthquake.  After 
all  their  hard  work  too,  their  desire  to  please, 
their  regular  customers,  so  contented,  who  came 
again  and  again.  Was  not  that  the  test — that 
they  came  again  and  again?  Obviously  then 
the  guide-book  was  wrong,  guilty  of  a  wicked 
injustice. 

What  did  he  think  could  have  happened  ?  All 
he  could  suppose  was  that  one  of  Herr  Bae- 
deker's agents,  staying  there  incognito,  had  had 
some  piece  of  bad  fortune ;  some  accident  of  the 
kitchen  impossible  to  prevent,  but  isolated,  had 
occurred  and  he  had  taken  offence.  But  how 
unfair!  No  one  should  judge  by  a  single  lapse. 
So  many  rivals  still  with  stars  and  he  without! 

Thus  would  the  Golden  Eagle  complain,  day 
after  day,  during  my  sojourn,  always  ending 
with  the  assurance  that  I  would  help  him  to  get 
the  star  back,  would  I  not? — I  who  had  such 
influence. 

And  now   there   is   to   be,    I   suppose,   a   new 
system  of  guide-book  astronomy.     If  the  Golden 
Eagle   has    survived   the   War   he   may,   in    the 
^  [24] 


The   Golden  Eagle 

eclipse  of  Baedeker,  be  more  resigned  to  his 
lot:  the  substitute  for  that  travelling  companion 
may  confer  a  star  of  his  own.  But  1  do  not 
propose  to  stay  with  him  in  order  to  make  sure. 


[25] 


A  MORNING  CALL 

THE  card  of  invitation — for  which  I  Jbave  to 
confess  that,  like  a  true  social  climber,  I 
had  to  some  extent  angled — came  at  last,  stating 
that  my  visit  would  be  expected  on  the  following 
day  at  noon  precisely,  and  that  evening  dress 
was  to  be  worn.  As  I  did  not  receive  it  until 
late  at  night,  and  as  some  medals  had  to  be 
bought  and  a  carriage  and  pair  hired,  I  was  busy 
enough  after  breakfast.  The  medals  were  for 
distribution  afterwards  among  certain  intimates, 
and  the  carriage  and  pair  was  to  convey  my 
friend  and  me  to  the  reception,  because  we 
wished  to  enter  at  the  gate  of  honour,  and  if 
you  would  do  this  you  must  have  two  horses,  A 
single  horse,  and  you  are  deposited  at  an  in- 
ferior door  and  have  a  long  walk. 

It  was  to  one  of  the  most  famous  buildings  in 
the  world  that  we  were  going — possibly  the  most 
famous — and  the  horses'  hoofs  had  a  brave 
resonance  (not  wholly  to  be  dissociated  from 
thoughts  of  Dumas)  as  they  clattered  swiftly 
over  the  stones,  beneath  archways,  past  sentries, 
and  through  spacious  and  venerable  courtyards, 
[26] 


A  jMorning  Call 

to  the  foot  of  the  famous  stairway.  After  as- 
cending to  an  ante-room,  where  colossal  guards 
scrutinised  us  and  splendid  lackeys  took  our 
hats,  we  were  shown  into  the  reception-room,  in 
the  doorway  of  which  an  elderly  gentleman  in 
black  with  a  black  bag  was  talking  with  such 
animation  to  a  major-domo  that  we  had  to  in- 
terrupt them  in  order  to  pass. 

In  this  reception-room,  an  apartment  of  some 
splendour,  in  which  we  were  to  meet  our  host, 
sufficient  guests  had  already  assembled  to  occupy 
most  of  the  wall  space — for  that  is  how  we  were 
placed,  in  four  lines  with  our  backs  to  the 
walls.  There  were  about  ninety  in  all,  I  cal- 
culated, of  whom  many  were  priests  and  nuns 
and  many  were  women,  the  rest  youths,  a  few 
girls,  and  a  very  few  civilian  men.  It  needed 
only  the  swiftest  glance  to  discern  that  my 
friend  and  I  were  the  only  ones  who  had  com- 
plied with  the  regulation  about  evening  dress. 
This,  naturally,  greatly  increased  our  comfort, 
since  we  became  at  once  the  cynosure  (as  the 
learned  would  say)  of  every  eye.  In  the  centre 
of  the  room  was  a  little  knot  of  officials,  includ- 
ing four  or  five  soldiers,  all  chatting  in  low  tones 
and  occasionally  glancing  through  the  door  op- 
posite that  by  which  we  had  entered,  which  gave 
upon  a  long  corridor.  So  for  some  twenty  min- 
utes we  waited,  nervous  and  whispering,  when 

[27] 


Adventui'es  and  Enthusiasms 

suddenly  the  officials  stiffened,  the  soldiers  hur- 
riedly fetched  tlieir  rifles  from  the  far  corner 
(a  proceeding  not  without  humour  when  one  con- 
siders all  things),  and  the  whole  ninety  of  us 
sank  on  our  knees  as  a  little  quick,  dark  man, 
dressed  in  white,  entered  the  room. 

To  be  on  one's  knees,  in  evening  dress,  at 
twenty  past  twelve  in  the  day,  facing  a  row  of 
people,  across  a  vast  expanse  of  carpet,  similarly 
kneeling,  and  being  also  a  little  self-conscious 
and  hungry,  is  not  conducive  to  minute  observa- 
tion; but  I  was  able  to  notice  that  our  host  was 
alert  and  bird-like  in  his  movements  and  had  a 
searching,  shrewd,  and  very  rapid  and  embracive 
glance.  Beneath  his  cassock  one  caught  sight 
of  elaborate  slippers,  and  he  wore  a  large  and 
magnificent  emerald  ring. 

As  he  was  late  he  got  briskly  to  work.  Each 
person  had  to  be  noticed  individually,  but  some 
had  brought  a  little  problem  on  which  advice  was 
needed ;  others  required  solace  for  the  absent 
and  afflicted;  most,  like  myself,  had  medals  of 
the  saints  which  were  to  be  made  more  effica- 
cious; and  three  or  four  of  the  priests  were  ac- 
companied by  far  from  negligible  or  indigent 
old  lady  parishioners,  to  whom  such  an  event  as 
this  would  be  the  more  memorable  and  valuable 
if  a  little  conversation  could  be  added.  Hence, 
there  was  work  before  our  host;  but  he  per- 
[28] 


A  Morning  Call 

formed  his  task  vdth  noticeable  discretion.  To 
me,  whom  at  last  he  reached,  he  said  nothing; 
but  my  friend,  who  is  of  the  old  persuasion,  put 
to  him  the  case  of  a  dying  youth  and  obtained 
sufficient  assurance  to  be  comforted.  And  all 
the  while  I  could  see  the  elderly  gentleman  in 
black  with  the  black  bag  glancing  round  the 
walls  from  the  doorway — his  function,  as  I 
afterwards  learned,  being  that  of  a  doctor  in- 
tent upon  restoring  to  consciousness  those  (and 
they  are  numerous)  who  swoon  under  the  im- 
mensity of  this  ceremony. 

Having  come  to  the  last  of  his  visitors,  our 
host  retired  to  the  middle  of  the  room  and  de- 
livered a  short  address  on  the  meaning  of  his 
blessing  and  the  importance  of  rectitude.  He 
then  blessed  us  once  again,  collectively,  and 
was  gone,  and  we  struggled  to  a  vertical  posi- 
tion, the  elderly  ladies  finding  the  assistance  of 
their  attendant  priests  more  than  useful  in  this 
process. 

My  knees,  too,  were  very  sore;  but  what  did 
I  care?     I  had  seen  Pope  Benedict  XV. 


[29] 


THE  TRUE  WIZARD  OF  THE  NORTH 

IT  is  no  disrespect  to  the  author  of  the 
Waverley  Novels  to  say  that  the  true  Wizard 
of  the  North  was  born  on  a  Sunday  in  1805, 
in  a  cobbler's  cottage  at  Odense,  in  Denmark, 
when  Scott  was  thirtj^-four. 

Hans  Christian  Andersen's  father,  a  cobbler, 
was  a  thoughtful,  original,  and  eccentric  man — 
as  cobblers  have  the  chance  to  be.  On  the  day 
that  his  little  Hans  was  born,  he  sat  by  the  bed- 
side and  read  to  the  child  Holberg's  "Come- 
dies." It  made  no  difference  that  the  audience 
only  cried.  Later  the  father  became  his  son's 
devoted  slave  and  companion,  reading  to  him  the 
"Arabian  Nights,"  constructing  puppet  theatres 
and  other  entertaining  devices,  and  entrusting 
him  with  his  peculiar  views  of  the  world  and 
religion.  The  mother  was,  in  the  words  of  Mary 
Howitt,  Hans  Andersen's  first  English  transla- 
tor, "all  heart";  from  her  perhaps  came  his  in- 
stant readiness  to  feel  with  others,  his  overmas- 
tering sense  of  pity,  his  smiling  tears,  while 
from  his  father  much  of  his  odd  humour  and 
irony.  But  there  was  still  another  influence. 
[30] 


Hans  Christian  Andersen 

Like  a  child  of  genius  of  our  own  race  with 
whom  Hans  Andersen  has  not  a  little  in  common, 
Charles  Lamb  (who  in  1805  was  thirty),  the  boy 
was  much  with  his  grandmother,  his  father's 
mother,  a  distressful  gentlewoman  who,  having 
come  upon  evil  days,  lived  in  great  poverty  with 
an  insane  husband,  a  toj^-maker,  and  kept  the 
home  together  by  acting  as  gardener  to  a  lunatic 
asylum.  To  little  Hans,  who  was  often  with 
her,  she  would  tell  stories  of  her  own  youth  and 
that  of  her  mother,  who  had  done  an  extremely 
Andersenian  thing — had  run  away  from  a  rich 
home  to  marry  a  comedian. 

Now  and  then  Hans  would  accompany  her  to 
the  asylum  itself.  "All  such  patients,"  he  has 
written,  in  "The  True  Story  of  My  Life,"  "as 
were  harmless  were  permitted  to  go  freely  about 
the  Court;  they  ofter.  came  to  us  in  the  garden, 
and  with  curiosity  and  terror  I  listened  to  them 
and  followed  them  about;  nay,  I  even  ventured 
so  far  as  to  go  with  the  attendants  to  those  who 
were  raving  mad.  .  .  .  Close  beside  the  place 
where  the  leaves  were  burned  the  poor  old 
women  had  their  spinning-room.  I  often  went 
in  there  and  was  very  soon  a  favourite.  .  .  . 
I  passed  for  a  remarkably  wise  child  who  would 
not  live  long;  and  they  rewarded  my  eloquence 
by  telling  me  tales  in  return;  and  thus  a  world 
as    rich    as    that   of   the    'Thousand    and    One 

[31] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

Nights'  was  revealed  to  me.  The  stories  told 
by  these  old  ladies,  and  the  insane  figures  which 
I  saw  around  me  in  the  asylum,  operated  in  the 
meantime  so  powerfully  upon  me  that  when  it 
grew  dark  I  scarcely  dared  to  go  out  of  the 
house." 

Here,  given  a  sensitive,  imaginative  nature, 
we  have  material  enough  to  build  up  much  of 
the  genius  of  Hans  Christian  Andersen.  How 
could  he  have  been  very  different  from  what  he 
was,  one  asks,  with  such  companions  and  sur- 
roundings in  the  most  impressionable  years — an 
embittered  whimsical  father,  full  of  the  "Ara- 
bian Nights,"  a  mother  "all  heart,"  a  grand- 
mother all  romantic  memory,  a  mad,  toy-making 
grandfather,  and  these  wool-gathering  old  ladies 
inventing  strange  histories  to  amuse  him  ?  And, 
added  to  all  this,  circumstances  of  poverty  to 
drive  his  thoughts  inwards  ?  Poets,  it  would  al- 
most seem,  can  be  both  made  as  well  as  born. 

But  the  boy  had  still  more  luck ;  for  he  struck 
up  an  acquaintance,  ripening  into  friendship, 
with  a  man  who  carried  out  play-bills,  "and  he 
gave  me  one  every  day.  With  this,  I  seated 
myself  in  a  corner  and  imagined  an  entire  play, 
according  to  the  name  of  the  piece  and  the 
characters  in  it.  This  was  my  first,  unconscious 
poetizing."  A  little  later  a  clergyman's  widow 
gave  the  boy  the  freedom  of  her  library  (as 
[32] 


Hans  Christian  Andersen 

Samuel  Salt  gave  his  to  the  little  Charles 
Lamb),  and  there  he  first  read  Shakespeare:  "I 
saw  Hamlet's  ghost,  and  lived  upon  the  hearth 
with  Lear.  The  more  persons  died  in  a  play,  the 
more  interesting  I  thought  it.  At  this  time  I 
wrote  my  first  piece;  it  was  nothing  less  than  a 
tragedy,  wherein,  as  a  matter  of  course,  every- 
body died.  The  subject  of  it  I  borrowed  from 
an  old  song  about  Pyramus  and  Thisbe;  but  I 
had  increased  the  incidents  through  a  hermit 
and  his  son,  who  both  loved  Thisbe,  and  who 
both  killed  themselves  when  she  died.  Many 
speeches  of  the  hermit  were  passages  from  the 
Bible,  taken  out  of  the  Little  catechism,  espe- 
cially from  our  duty  to  our  neighbours."  Later 
the  boy  wrote  a  drama  with  a  king  and  queen  in 
it,  and,  feeling  himself  at  fault  as  to  the  lan- 
guage of  courts,  produced  a  German-French- 
English-and-Danish  lexicon,  and  took  a  word 
out  of  each  language  to  lend  the  royal  speeches 
an  air. 

Hans  Andersen's  father  dying  when  the  boy 
was  still  young,  the  mother  married  again,  and 
Hans  was  left  even  more  to  himself.  He  read 
and  wrote  and  recited  all  day,  so  that  it  became 
generally  imderstood  that  he  was  to  be  a  poet; 
and  as  nothing  is  so  absurd  to  the  eyes  of  healthy 
normal  boys  as  a  poet,  he  was  the  victim  of  not  a 
little  ridicule.     His  mother's  wish  to  apprentice 

[33] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

him  to  a  tailor  precipitated  his  fate.  Rather 
than  that  he  would  go,  he  declared,  to  Copen- 
hagen and  join  the  theatre.  To  deny  her  son 
anything  was  beyond  her  power;  but  she  was 
happier  about  it  after  consulting  a  witch  and 
receiving  from  the  coffee-grounds  and  the  cards 
the  assurance  (afterwards  realised)  that  he 
would  become  a  great  man,  and  that  in  honour 
of  him  Odense  would  one  day  be  illuminated. 
And  so  at  the  age  of  fourteen,  with  thirty  shil- 
lings and  a  bundle  of  clothes,  Hans  Christian 
Andersen  arrived  in  Copenhagen  to  seek  his 
fortune. 

On  that  day  his  childhood  was  over.  Some 
one  has  said  that  nothing  that  really  counts 
ever  happens  to  us  after  the  teens  are  reached, 
and  it  is  more  true  than  not.  At  Copenhagen, 
Hans  Andersen,  young  as  he  was,  forsook  the 
world  of  fantasy  and  entered  the  world  of  fact. 
The  dancer  to  whom  he  had  an  introduction 
laughed  at  him;  he  was  repulsed  from  the 
theatre.  For  four  or  five  years  he  starved  and 
suffered.  His  singing  and  his  passion  for  re- 
citing, however,  gained  him  a  few  friends  to 
set  against  poverty  and  the  ridicule  which  his 
earnest  enthusiasm,  uncouth  lanky  figure,  and 
long  nose  brought  him  almost  everywhere  that 
he  went.  Among  them  were  Weyse,  the  com- 
poser, Sibonia,  the  singer,  and  Guldborg,  the 
[34] 


Hans  Christian  Andersen 

poet,  through  whose  interests  the  boy  was  able 
to  take  lessons  in  singing  and  dancing,  and  even 
to  make  his  theatrical  debut  in  the  chorus.  It 
was  the  composition  of  a  tragedy  that  decided 
his  fate  and  made  his  fortune,  for  it  came  into 
the  hands  of  Jonas  Collin,  director  of  the  Royal 
Theatre,  brought  him  the  interest  o£  that  influ- 
ential man,  and  led  to  the  Royal  Grant  which 
sent  the  young  author  to  the  Latin  School  at 
Skagelse  for  a  period  of  three  years. 

In  1829  he  published  his  first  characteristic 
work,  the  "Journey  on  Foot  from  Holm  Canal  to 
the  East  Point  of  Armager,"  a  very  youthful 
tissue  of  grotesque  humour  and  impudence.  A 
desultory  year  or  two  followed,  when  he  wrote 
much  and  came  in  for  a  quite  undue  share  of 
attack,  which  his  sensitive  nature  began  to  con- 
strue as  a  death-warrant;  and  then,  in  1833, 
again  through  Collin,  a  travelling  grant  of  ,£70 
a  year  for  two  years  was  obtained  for  him  from 
Frederick  VI,  and  he  set  off  for  Paris.  With 
that  journey  his  true  career  began,  the  success 
of  which  was  never  to  be  chequered  save  by 
occasional  fits  of  depression  following  upon 
hostile  criticism.  From  Paris  he  went  to  Rome, 
where  he  met  Thorwaldsen  and  wrote  his  first 
and  best  known  novel,  "The  Improvisatore,"  an 
intense  and  fanciful  story  of  Rome  and  the 
stage,  marked  by  much  tender  charm,  and,  like 

[351 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

the  writer's  mother,  "all  heart,"  in  which  an 
autobiographical  thread  is  woven.  The  novel 
had  an  immediate  success,  and  Hans  Andersen 
suddenly  found  himself  one  of  the  leading 
Danish  authors. 

But  not  yet  was  his  real  work  begun.  His 
real  work  was  the  telling  of  fairy  tales — or 
"Eventyr  og  Historier,"  as  he  called  them — the 
first  of  which  were  published  in  a  slender  volume 
in  1835,  a  little  after  "The  Improvisatore," 
Tinder  the  title  "Fairy  Tales  as  Told  to  Chil- 
dren." Since  in  this  book  were  "The  Tinder 
Box,"  "Little  Claus  and  Big  Claus,"  "The 
Princess  and  the  Pea,"  and  "Little  Ida's  Flow- 
ers," it  will  be  seen  that  Hans  Andersen  entered 
the  arena  fully  armed.  Next  year  came  the 
second  part,  containing  "Thumbelina,"  "The 
Travelling  Companion,"  and  "The  Naughty 
Boy,"  and  in  1837  a  third  part,  with  "The 
Little  Mermaid"  and  "The  Emperor's  New 
Clothes."  Hans  Andersen  himself,  whose  con- 
stant ambition  (again  like  Lamb)  w^as  to  write 
successfully  for  the  stage,  thought  but  little  of 
these  stories,  which  presented  no  difficulties  to 
his  pen.  He  preferred  (authors  often  being 
their  own  worst  judges)  his  novels,  his  poems, 
his  travels ;  above  all,  he  preferred  his  dramatic 
efforts ;  and  yet  it  is  by  these  tales  that  he  lives 
and  will  ever  live. 

r36i 


Hans  Christian  Andersen 

Hans  Andersen  now  began  to  travel  regularly 
every  year  and  to  write  little  personal  memoirs 
of  his  adventures  in  a  manner  which  in  England 
to-day  we  associate  with  "Eothen"  and  "An  In- 
land Voyage."  Wherever  he  went  he  made 
friends,  and  he  was  always  willing — more,  eager 
— to  read  his  stories  aloud:  even  in  Germany, 
where,  owing  to  his  defective  knowledge  of  the 
language,  his  audiences  had  difficulty  in  main- 
taining the  cast  of  feature  demanded  by  this 
most  exacting  of  literary  lions.  In  1847  he  was 
in  London,  much  feted,  the  way  having  been 
paved  by  Mary  Howitt's  translation  of  his  auto- 
biography and  of  "The  Improvisatore,"  and  in 
1857  he  was  here  again,  spending  five  weeks  at 
Gad's  Hill  with  Dickens  (by  seven  years  his 
junior),  whom  he  revered  and  almost  wor- 
shipped. Hans  Andersen's  Anglo-Saxon  readers 
have  always  been  very  numerous  and  very  ap- 
preciative, and  in  return  he  praised  England 
and  wrote  "The  Two  Baronesses"  in  our  tongue. 
Only  a  few  months  before  his  death  he  was 
gratified  to  receive  a  gift  of  books  from  the 
children  of  America. 

His  latter  years  were  full  of  honour  and  com- 
fort. He  had  many  wealthy  friends,  including 
the  Danish  Royal  Family,  a  substantial  pension, 
and  a  considerable  revenue  from  his  work.  In 
the    summer    he    lived    with    the    Melchiors    at 

[37] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

Roligliet;  in  winter  in  rooms  in  Copenhagen, 
dining  with  a  different  friend  regularly  cac'i 
night  of  the  week.  His  health  was  better  than 
he  liked  to  think  it,  and  he  was  able  almost  to 
the  end  to  indulge  his  passion  for  travel.  He 
went  often  to  the  theatre,  or,  if  unable  to  do  so, 
had  the  play  bill  brought  to  liis  rooms,  where, 
knowing  every  classic  play  by  heart,  he  would 
follow  its  course  in  imagination,  assisted  by 
occasional  visits  from  the  performers.  He  never 
married,  and,  when  once  an  early  and  not  very 
serious  attachment  was  forgotten,  never  seemed 
to  wish  it;  but  he  liked  to  be  liked  by  women. 
Indeed,  he  was  normal  enough  to  like  to  be 
liked  by  every  one,  and  most  of  the  unhappiness 
of  which  he  was  capable — even  to  a  kind  of 
self-torture — proceeded  from  the  suspicion  that 
he  was  unwelcome  here  and  there.  For  in  spite 
of  his  hard  experience  of  the  world,  he  con- 
tinued a  child  to  the  end;  a  spoilt  child,  indeed, 
more  than  not,  as  men  of  genius  often  can  be. 

He  lived  to  be  seventy,  and  died  peacefully 
on  August  4,  1875.  "Take  care,  above  all 
things,"  he  had  once  said  when  humorously  dis- 
cussing his  funeral,  "that  you  drill  a  little  hole 
in  my  coffin,  so  that  I  may  have  a  peep  at  all  the 
pomp  and  ceremony,  and  see  which  of  my  good 
friends  follow  me  to  the  grave  and  which  do 
[S8] 


Hans  Christian  Andersen 

not."     They  were  there,  every  one.      He  was 
followed  to  the  grave  by  all  Denmark. 

It  is,  as  I  have  said,  by  his  fairy  tales  that 
Hans  Andersen  lives  and  will  ever  live.  There 
he  stands  alone,  supreme.  As  a  whole,  there  is 
nothing  like  them.  One  man  of  genius  or  an- 
other has  now  and  then  done  something  a  little 
in  this  or  that  Hans  Andersen  manner.  Heine 
here  and  there  in  the  "Reisebilder";  Lamb 
in  "The  Child  Angel"  and  perhaps  "Dream 
Children";  and  one  sees  affinities  to  him  occa- 
sionally in  Sir  James  Barrie's  work  (the  swal- 
lows in  "The  Little  White  Bird,"  for  example, 
build  under  the  eaves  to  hear  the  stories  which 
are  told  to  the  children  in  the  house,  while  in 
Hans  Andersen's  "Thumbelina"  the  swallows 
live  under  the  poet's  eaves  in  order  to  tell  stories 
to  him)  ;  but  Hans  Andersen  remains  one  of  the 
most  unique  and  fascinating  minds  in  all  litera- 
ture. Nominally  just  entertainment  for  chil- 
dren, these  "Eventyr  og  Historier"  are  a  pro- 
found study  of  the  human  heart  and  a  "criticism 
of  life"  beyond  most  poetry.  And  all  the  while 
they  are  stories  for  children  too;  for  though 
Hans  Andersen  addresses  both  audiences,  he 
never,  save  in  a  very  few  of  the  slighter  satirical 
apologues,  such  as  "The  Collar"  and  "Soup 
from  a  Sausage  Skewer,"  loses  the  younger. 
He  had  this  double  appeal  in  mind  when,  on  a 

[39] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

statue  being  raised  in  his  honour  at  Copenhagen 
just  before  his  death,  showing  him  in  the  act 
of  telling  a  tale  to  a  cluster  of  children,  he 
protested  that  it  was  not  representative  enough. 
I  would  apply  to  Hans  Andersen  rather  than 
to  Scott  the  term  "The  Wizard  of  the  North"; 
because  whereas  Scott  took  men  and  women  as 
he  found  them,  the  other,  with  a  touch  of  his 
wand,  rendered  inhuman  things — furniture,  toys, 
flowers,  poultry — instinct  with  humanity.  He 
knew  actually  how  everything  would  behave;  he 
knew  how  a  piece  of  coal  talked,  and  how  a 
nightingale.  He  did  not  merely  give  speech  to 
a  pair  of  scissors,  he  gave  character  too.  This 
was  one  of  his  greatest  triumphs.  He  discerned 
instantly  the  relative  social  positions  of  moles 
and  mice,  bulls  and  cocks,  tin  soldiers  and  china 
shepherdesses.  He  peopled  a  new  world,  and,; 
having  done  so,  he  made  every  incident  in  it 
dramatic  and  unforgettable.  He  brought  to  his 
task  of  amusing  and  awakening  children  gifts 
of  humour  and  irony,  fancy  and  charm,  the  deli- 
cacy of  which  will  probably  never  be  surpassed. 
He  brought  also  an  April  blend  of  tears  and 
smiles,  and  a  very  tender  sympathy  with  all  that 
is  beautiful  and  all  that  is  oppressed.  He  did 
not  preach,  or,  if  he  did,  he  so  quickly  rectified 
the  lapse  with  a  laugh  or  a  quip  that  one  forgets 
[40] 


Hans  Christian  Andersen 

the  indiscretion;  but  he  beheved  that  only  the 
good  are  happy,  and  he  wanted  happiness  to 
be  universal.  Hence  to  read  his  tales  is  an  edu- 
cation in  optimism  and  benevolence. 


[411 


INNOCENCE  AND  IMPULSE 

LOOKING  the  other  day  into  Grimm,  I 
came  upon  the  story  called  "Hans  in 
Luck/'  in  which  a  foolish  fellow,  having  his 
life's  savings  in  a  bag,  gives  them  away  for  an 
old  horse,  and  the  old  horse  for  a  cow,  and  the 
cow  for  a  pig,  and  so  on,  until  at  last  he  has 
only  a  heavy  stone  to  his  name,  and,  getting  rid 
of  that  burden,  thinks  himself  the  most  fortu- 
nate of  men — Hans  in  luck.  It  was  the  very 
ordinary  metal  of  this  folk-tale  which  Hans 
Andersen  transmuted  to  fine  gold  in  the  famous 
story  entitled,  in  the  translation  on  which  I  was 
brought  up,  "What  the  old  man  does  is  always 
right,"  which  is  a  veritable  epic  in  little  of  sim- 
plicity and  enthusiasm.  No  one  who  has  read 
it  can  forget  it,  for  its  exquisite  author  is  there 
at  his  kindliest  and  sunniest,  all  his  sardonic 
melancholy    forgotten. 

The  old  man,  in  bitter  financial  straits,  setting 
out  in  the  morning  to  sell  his  cow  at  market, 
makes,  in  his  incorrigible  optimism,  a  series  of 
exchanges,  all  for  the  worse,  so  that  when  he 
reaches  home  in  the  evening,  instead  of  a  pocket- 
[42] 


Innocence  and  Impulse 

ful  of  money  to  show  for  his  day's  dealings,  he 
has  only  a  sack  of  rotten  apples.  Nothing,  how- 
ever, has  dimmed  his  radiant  faith  in  himself  as 
a  good  trafficker,  and  nothing  can  undermine  his 
wife's  belief  in  him  as  the  best  and  financially 
most  sagacious  of  husbands :  a  belief  which,  ex- 
pressed in  the  presence  of  two  gentlemen  who, 
having  had  a  wager  on  her  unshakeable  loyalty, 
had  come  to  the  house  to  settle  it,  led  to  the  old 
couple's  enrichment  and  assured  prosperity. 

It  was  this  charming  story  which  came  to  my 
mind  in  the  train  the  other  day  as  I  looked  at 
the  young  sandy-haired  and  freckled  soldier 
opposite  me  on  the  journey  to  Portsmouth,  for 
here  was  another  example  of  impulsive  simplic- 
ity. On  the  back  of  his  right  hand  was  tattooed 
a  very  red  heart,  emitting  effulgence,  across 
which  two  hands  were  clasped,  and  beneath  were 
the  words  "True  Love";  and  on  the  back  of  his 
left  hand  was  tattooed  the  head  of  a  girl.  He 
was  perhaps  twenty.  Should  there  be  no  more 
wars  to  trouble  the  world,  I  thought,  as  from 
time  to  time  I  glanced  at  him,  he  will  probably 
live  to  be  seventy.  Since  tattoo  marks  never 
come  out  and  the  backs  of  one's  hands  are 
usually  visible  to  oneself,  he  is  likely  to  have 
some  curious  thoughts  as  be  passes  down  the 
years.  What  kind  of  emotions,  I  wondered,  will 
be  his  as  he  views  them  at  thirty-one,  forty-one, 

[43] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

fifty-one?  And  supposing  that  this  first  love 
fails,  what  will  be  the  attitude  of  subsequent 
ladies  to  these  embellishments?  For  it  would 
probably  be  in  vain,  even  if  he  were  sophisticated 
enough  to  think  of  it,  for  him  to  maintain  that 
the  decoration  was  purely  symbolic,  the  right- 
hand  device  standing  for  devotion  and  the  left 
for  woman  in  the  abstract.  That  would  hardly 
wash.  Subsequent  ladies — and  judging  from 
his  appearance  and  his  early  start  there  are  sure 
to  be  some — ^may  give  him  rather  a  difficult  time. 

It  all  goes  to  prove  what  a  dangerous  thing 
impulse  can  be.  And  yet  as  I  looked  at  his 
simple  face,  and  reflected  on  what  safe  areas  of 
normally-hidden  epidermis  he  possessed  for  such 
pictorial  ebullition,  I  found  myself  envying  such 
a  lack  of  self-protectiveness  ;  and  I  asked  myself 
if,  after  all,  those  who  will  have  nothing  to  do 
with  self-protectiveness  are  not  the  salt  of  the 
earth.  The  gamblers,  the  careless,  the  sippers 
of  all  the  honey  the  moment  contains:  are  not 
these  the  best? 

Most  young  ardencies  are  not  as  reckless  as 
his — and,  of  course,  it  may  all  end  happily :  what 
the  young  man  did  may  turn  out  also  to  be  right. 
With  all  my  heart  I  hope  so. 


[44] 


POSSESSIONS 

SOME  one  has  offered  me  a  very  remarkable 
and  beautiful  and  valuable  gift — and  I' 
don't  know  what  to  do.  A  few  years  ago  I 
should  have  accepted  it  with  rapture.  To-day  I 
hesitate,  because  the  older  one  grows  the  less 
does  one  wish  to  accumulate  possessions. 

It  is  said  that  the  reason  why  Jews  so  often 
become  fishmongers  and  fruiterers  and  dealers 
in  precious  stones  is  because  in  every  child  of 
Israel  there  is  a  subconscious  conviction  that  at 
any  moment  he  may  be  called  upon  to  return  to 
his  country,  and  naturally  wishing  to  lose  as 
little  as  possible  by  a  sudden  departure  he 
chooses  to  traffic  either  in  a  stock  which  he  can 
carry  on  his  person,  such  as  diamonds,  or  in 
one  which,  being  perishable  and  renewable  day 
by  day,  such  as  fruit  and  fish,  can  be  abandoned 
at  any  moment  with  almost  no  loss  at  all.  Simi- 
larly the  Jews  are  said  to  favour  such  household 
things  as  can  be  easily  removed :  rugs,  for  exam- 
ple, rather  than  carpets.  I  have  not,  so  far  as 
I  know,  any  Jewish  blood,  but  in  the  few  years 
that  are  left  me  I  too  want  to  be  ready  to  obey 
the  impulse  towards  whatever  Jerusalem  I  hear 
calling  me,  even  should  it  be  the  platonically- 

[45] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

loved  city  itself,  although  that  is  unlikely.  With- 
out possessions  one  would  be  the  readier  also 
for  the  longer  last  journey.  Naked  we  come 
into  this  world  and  naked  we  should  go.  Nor 
should  we  wilfully  add  to  the  difficulties  of  leav- 
ing it. 

I  was  lately  led  by  its  owner,  rebuilder,  and 
renovator  through  the  rooms  and  gardens  of  a 
Tudor  house  which,  with  infinite  thought  and 
discretion,  has  been  reclaimed  from  decay  and 
made  modernly  debonair.  At  every  step,  indoors 
and  out,  was  something  cliarming  or  adequate, 
whether  furniture  or  porcelain,  whether  flower 
or  shrub.  Within  were  long  cool  passages  where 
through  the  diamond  jianes  sunlight  splashed  on 
the  white  walls,  and  bedrooms  of  the  gayest 
daintiness;  without  were  lawns,  and  vistas,  and 
arrangements  of  the  loveliest  colours.  "Well," 
my  hostess  asked  me,  "what  do  you  think  of  it 
all?"  I  thought  many  things,  but  the  one  which 
was  uppermost  was  this:  "You  are  making  it 
very  hard  to  die." 

I  had  a  grandfather  who,  after  he  had  reached 
a  certain  age,  used  birthdays  as  occasions  on 
which  to  give  away  rather  than  receive  presents ; 
and  I  am  sure  he  was  right.  But  I  would  go 
beyond  that.  The  presents  which  he  distributed 
were  bought  for  the  purpose.  I  would  fix  a 
period  in  life  when  the  wise  man  should  begin 
[46] 


Possessions 

to  unload  his  acquisitions — accumulating  only 
up  to  that  point  and  then  dispersing  among  the 
young.  Ah !  but  you  say,  why  be  so  illogical .'' 
If  possessions  are  undesirable,  are  they  not  un- 
desirable also  for  the  young?  Well,  there  are 
answers  to  that.  For  one  thing,  who  said  any- 
tliing  about  being  logical?  And  then,  are  we 
not  all  different?  Because  I  choose  to  cease  ac- 
cumulating, that  is  no  reason  why  others,  who 
like  to  increase  their  possessions,  should  cease 
also.  And  again,  even  I,  with  all  my  talk  of 
renunciation,  have  not  suggested  that  it  should 
begin  till  a  middling  period  has  been  reached; 
and  I  am  all  for  circulating  objets  d'art,  too.  I 
should  like  a  continual  progression  of  pictures 
and  other  beautiful  things  throughout  the  king- 
dom, so  that  the  great  towns  could  have  the 
chance  of  seeing  the  best  as  well  as  London. 

So  far  am  I  from  withholding  possessions 
from  others,  that  as  I  walked  down  Bond  Street 
the  other  day  and  paused  at  this  window  and 
that,  filled  with  exquisite  jewels  and  enamelled 
boxes  and  other  voluptuous  trifles,  I  thought  how 
delightful  it  would  be  to  be  rich  enough  to  buy 
them  all — not  to  own  them,  but  to  give  them 
away.  To  women  for  choice;  to  one  woman  for 
choice.  And  a  letter  which  I  remember  re- 
ceiving from  France  during  the  War  had  some 
bearing   upon    this    aspect   of   the   case,    for   it 

[47] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

mentioned  a  variety  of  possessions  which  car- 
ried with  them,  in  the  trenches,  extraordinary 
and  constant  pleasure  and  consolation.  The 
writer  was  a  lady  who  worked  at  a  canteen  in 
the  big  Paris  terminus  for  the  front,  and  she 
said  that  the  soldiers  returning  from  their  leave 
often  displayed  to  her  the  mascots  and  other 
treasures  which  comforted  them  in  their  vigils, 
and  with  which  they  were  always  well  sup- 
plied. Sometimes  these  possessions  were  living 
creatures.  One  soldier  had  produced  from  a 
basket  a  small  fox  which  he  had  found  and 
brought  up,  and  which  this  lady  fed  with  bread 
and  milk  while  its  owner  ate  his  soup.  Another 
had  a  starling.  A  third  took  out  of  his  pocket 
a  venerable  handkerchief,  which,  on  being  un- 
rolled, revealed  the  person  of  Marguerite — a 
magpie  whom  he  adored,  and  who  apparently 
adored  him.  They  were  inseparable.  Mar- 
guerite had  accompanied  him  into  action  and 
while  he  was  on  permission,  and  she  was  now 
cheering  him  on  his  return  to  the  danger  zone. 
She  was  placed  on  the  table,  where  she  im- 
mediately fell  asleep;  at  the  end  of  the  meal 
the  poor  fellow  rolled  her  again  in  the  hand- 
kerchief, popped  her  in  his  pocket,  and  ran  for 
his  tragic  train.  But  for  the  companionship  of 
Marguerite  his  heart  would  have  been  far  heav- 
ier ;  and  she  was  thus  a  possession  worth  having. 
[48] 


DRAKE  AND  HIS  GAME 

THE  British  Navy  did  not  begin  with  Drake. 
On  consulting  the  authorities  I  find  that 
the  Navy  proper,  as  an  organization,  may  be 
said  to  have  begun  in  the  reign  of  King  John, 
and  to  have  been  put  on  its  modern  basis  by 
Henry  VII.  But  Drake's  is  the  first  name  to 
conjure  with. 

Any  one  wishing  to  lay  a  tangible  tribute 
at  the  feet  of  Britain's  earliest  naval  hero  of 
world-wide  fame  would  have  to  visit  either  the 
monument  which  was  erected  to  him — not  cer- 
tainly in  any  indecent  haste — at  Tavistock,  in 
1883,  when  he  had  been  dead  for  nearly  two 
hundred  and  ninety  years,  or  the  replica  of  it, 
which  was  set  up  on  Plymouth  Hoe  in  the  year 
following.  To  go  to  the  Hoe  is,  I  think,  better ; 
for  at  the  Hoe  you  can  look  out  on  Drake's 
own  sea. 

London  has  no  Drake  monuments.  But  had 
a  certain  imaginative  enthusiast  had  his  way  in 
the  year  1581  a  memorial  of  the  great  seaman, 
more  interesting  and  stimulating  than  any 
statue,  would  have  added  excitement  to  Ludgate 
Hill  and  to  every  Londoner  passing  that  way, 
for  it  was   seriously  proposed  that  the  Golden 

[49] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

Hind,  the  vessel  in  which  Drake  sailed  round 
the  world,  and  the  first  English  ship  to  make 
such  a  voyage,  should  be  bodily  lifted  to  the  top 
of  St.  Paul's  (which  had  a  spire  in  those  days) 
and  permanently  fixed  there.  Even  had  the 
project  been  carried  out  we  personally  should 
be  none  the  richer,  for  the  Fire  of  London  was 
to  intervene ;  but  it  was  a  fine  idea.  I  wish 
something  of  the  kind  might  still  be  done; 
for  if  such  a  fascinating  little  model  galleon 
as  the  weathercock  on  Lord  Astor's  beautiful 
Embankment  house  by  the  Essex  Street  steps 
can  rejoice  the  eyes  as  it  does,  how  would 
not  a  real  one,  high  over  Ludgate  Hill,  quicken 
the   mind   and  the  pulse? 

And  we  ought  in  London  to  think  far  more 
of  ships  than  we  do.  By  ships  we  live,  whether 
merchant  ships  bringing  us  food,  or  ironclads 
preserving  those  ships ;  and  not  only  should 
the  docks  be  known  to  Londoners,  instead  of 
being,  as  now,  foreign  parts  infinitely  more 
remote  than,  say,  Brighton,  but  the  Navy  should 
visit  us  too.  The  old  Britannia  ought  to  have 
been  brought  to  the  Thames  when  she  was  su- 
perannuated. "There,"  the  guides  should  have 
been  able  to  say,  "was  the  training  college  of 
our  admirals.  There,  in  that  hulk,  Beatty 
learned  to  navigate,  Sturdee  to  tic  knots,  and 
Jellicoe  to  signal !"  The  Victory  should  be 
[50] 


Drake  and  His  Game 

brought  to  London,  as  a  constant  and  glorious 
reminder  of  what  Nelson  did,  before  steam  came 
in.  She  is  wasted  at  Portsmouth,  which  is  all 
shipping.  In  London,  either  in  the  Thames 
or  on  the  top  of  St.  Paul's,  she  would  have 
noble  results,  and  every  errand-boy  would  be- 
come a  stowaway,  as  every  errand-boy  should. 

A  second  proposal,  to  preserve  the  Golden 
Hind  as  a  ship  for  ever,  also  fell  through,  and 
she  was  either  allowed  to  decay  or  was  broken 
up  (as  the  Britannia  has  been)  ;  but  whereas  the 
relics  from  the  Britannia  are  many,  the  only 
authentic  memorial  of  the  Golden  Hind  is  an 
arm-chair  fashioned  from  her  wood  which  is  a 
valued  possession  of  the  Bodleian.  Why  the 
Bodleian,  I  cannot  explain,  for  Drake  was 
neither  an  Oxford  graduate  nor  a  scholar.  His 
University  was  the  sea. 

That  he  was  a  Devonian,  we  know,  but  not 
much  else  is  known.  The  years  1539,  1540, 
1541,  and  1545  all  claim  his  birth,  and  the 
historians  are  at  conflict  as  to  whether  his  father 
was  a  parson  or  not.  Some  say  that,  having, 
owing  to  religious  persecution,  to  flee  to  Kent, 
the  elder  Drake  inhabited  a  hulk  (like  Rudder 
Grange),  and,  in  the  intervals  of  reading 
prayers  to  the  sailors  in  the  Medway,  brought 
up  his  twelve  sons  to  the  sea.  But  that  mat- 
ters little;  what  matters  is  that  one  of  his  sons 

[51] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

became  a  master  mariner,  a  buccaneer,  a  cir- 
cumnavigator, a  knight,  an  admiral,  and  in 
1588  destroyed  (under  God)  the  Spanish  Ar- 
mada. This  successful  and  intrepid  commander 
was  a  man  "of  small  size,  with  reddish  beard," 
who  treated  his  companions  with  affection,  as 
they  him  with  respect,  and  got  the  last  drop  of 
energy  and  devotion  out  of  all.  He  had  "every 
possible  luxury,  even  to  perfume,"  but  remained 
hard  as  nails.  His  death  came  to  pass  off  Porto 
Rico,  whither  he  had  been  sent  by  Queen  Eliza- 
beth to  bring  back  another  haul  of  treasure 
from  the  West  Indies.  Hitherto  he  had  suc- 
ceeded, returning  always  with  more  spoil,  but 
this  time  he  succumbed  to  various  disorders. 

The  waves  became  his  winding  sheet,  the  waters  were 

his  tomb; 
But  for  his  fame  the  ocean  sea  is  not  sufficient  room. 

Even  in  the  six-and-thirty  years  that  Drake 
has  stood,  in  bronze,  on  the  Hoe,  he  has  seen 
wonderful  changes;  but  had  his  statue  been 
there  ever  since  his  death — as  it  should  have 
been — what  amazing  naval  developments  would 
'  have  passed  beneath  his  eyes :  wood  to  iron, 
canvas  to  paddle-wheel,  paddle-wheel  to  screw, 
coal  to  oil,  and  then  the  submarine! 

Turning    from    the    Hoe    with    the    intention 
of  descending  to  the  town  by  one  of  the  paths 
[52] 


Drake  and  His  Game 

through  the  lawns  at  the  back  of  the  great 
sailor's  statue,  what  should  confront  me  but  the 
most  perfect  bowling-green  I  have  ever  seen, 
with  little  sets  of  phlegmatic  Devonians  ab- 
sorbed in  their  contests.  Here,  thought  I,  is, 
bej'ond  praise,  devotion  to  tradition.  Of  na- 
tional games  we  have  all  heard,  but  there  is 
something,  in  a  way,  even  finer  in  a  municipal 
game — and  such  a  municipal  game,  the  most 
famous  of  all.  For  years  I  have  never  heard 
Plymouth  Hoe  mentioned  without  thinking  of 
Drake  and  the  game  of  bowls  in  which  he  was 
playing,  and  which  he  refused  to  interrupt, 
when,  that  July  afternoon,  in  1588,  news  came 
that  the  Spaniards  were  off  the  Lizard.  ("Plenty 
of  time,"  he  said,  "to  finish  the  game  and  beat 
the  Spaniards  too.")  But  it  had  never  occurred 
to  me  that  bowls  and  the  Hoe  were  still  asso- 
ciated. England  has  commonly  a  shorter  mem- 
ory than  that.  And,  indeed,  why  should  they 
be  associated?  There  is,  for  example,  no  arch- 
ery at  Tell's  Chapel  on  the  shore  of  the  Lake 
of  Lucerne,  no  wood-chopping  at  Moimt  Vernon. 
But  Devon,  with  excellent  piety,  remembers 
and  honours  its  own  prophet;  and  I  now  under- 
stand how  it  is  that  the  Plymouth  Museum 
should  be  destitute  of  relics  of  Drake.  Why 
trouble  about  his  personal  trappings  when  this 
pleasant  sward   is   in   existence,  to   connect  the 

[53] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

eye  instantly  with  the  mighty  admiral  at  one  of 
the  most  engaging  moments  of  his  life? 

I  stood  by  the  railings  of  the  green  for  two 
hours  watching  the  latter-day  Plymouth  cham- 
pions at  their  play.  Only  the  descent  of  the 
sun  and  the  encroaching  gloom  drove  me  away, 
and  even  then  a  few  enthusiasts  remained  bowl- 
ing and  bowling;  for  every  one  who  is  devoted 
to  bowls  knows  that  the  twilight  favours  form, 
although  it  does  not  favour  the  spectators. 
The  players  seemed  to  me  to  be  chiefly  of 
the  mercantile  class,  and  I  wondered  if  among 
them  were  any  of  the  bearers  of  the  odd  names 
which  I  had  noticed  above  the  Plymouth  shops 
as  I  was  drifting  about  its  streets  that  morn- 
ing. Were  any  of  the  great  Devon  tribe  of 
Yeo  there?  Was  Mr.  Condy  U'Ren  winning  or 
losing?  What  kind  of  a  "wood"  did  Mr.  Odam 
project  towards  the  "jack"?  Could  the  ad- 
mirable elderly  player  who  always  lifted  his 
right  foot  and  held  it  poised  in  the  air  while 
delivering  the  bowl  be  Mr.  Jethro  Ham?  I 
judged  the  players  to  be,  in  many  cases,  old 
antagonists,  and  these  games  on  this  sunny 
October  afternoon  merely  items  in  a  series  of 
battles  spread  over  years  past,  and  to  continue, 
I  hope,  for  years  to  come;  for  the  pastime  of 
bowls,  unlike  cricket  and  baseball  and  lawn 
tennis,  has  a  kindly,  welcoming  smile  for  old 
[54] 


Drake  and  His  Game 

age.  The  late  Sir  William  Osier's  rule  as  to 
forty  being  the  culmination  of  man's  power  be- 
comes an  absurdity  on  the  green.  There,  seventy 
is  nothing.  At  eighty  you  are  not  necessarily 
to  be  sneezed  at.  Even  nonagenarians,  I  believe, 
have  earned  the  thrill  contained  in  the  phrase 
"Good  wood !"  So  then  I  confidently  expect, 
if  I  am  alive,  and  am  on  Plymouth  Hoe  in 
twenty  years'  time,  when  prosperity  will  again 
be  established,  with  amity  among  the  nations, 
to  find  many  of  the  same  players  at  this  at 
once  the  gentlest,  but  not  the  least  exciting, 
of  games — to  me,  at  any  rate,  more  exciting 
than  horse-racing  with  all  its  speed. 

They  played  exceedingly  well,  these  men  of 
Plymouth,  one  veteran  in  particular  exacting  a 
deadly  amount  of  work  out  of  the  last  four 
feet  of  the  bowls'  stealthy  journey.  And  how 
serious  they  were — with  their  india-rubber  over- 
shoes, and  a  mat  to  start  from !  I  doubt  if  Sir 
Francis  had  it  all  so  spick-and-span — for  in 
his  day  we  were  very  nearly  as  far  from  lawn 
mowers  as  from  turbines.  And  how  intent  they 
were  on  the  progress  not  only  of  their  own  bowls 
but  of  their  opponents'  too — but  of  course  with 
a  more  personal,  more  intimate,  interest  in  their 
own,  even  to  following  its  curve  with  their  back- 
bones, and  to  some  extent  spinally  reproducing 
it,  as  conscientious  players  involuntarily  do. 

[55] 


ADMIRALS  ALL— TO  BE 

IT  is  fitting  that  the  naval  training  college 
from  which  the  English  midshipmen  go 
straiglit  to  sea  should  be  situated  in  Drake's 
county.  This  means  that  they  breathe  the  right 
air,  and,  through  the  gap  made  by  the  rocky 
mouth  of  the  Dart,  look  out  from  their  com- 
manding eminence  upon  a  triangle  of  the  right 
blue  water.  Drake  also  gives  his  noble  name 
to  one  of  the  Terms  (or  companies  of  cadets). 
I  have  seen  Dartmouth  both  at  work  and  at 
play,  and  am  still  not  sure  which  was  which. 
Whether  the  boys  were  at  football  on  those  high 
table-lands  where,  at  the  first  glimpse — so  many 
players  are  there — all  the  games  seem  one ;  or 
cleaning  boilers ;  or  solving  the  problems  of 
knots;  or  winding  accumulators;  or  learning  to 
steer;  or  drawing  machinery  sections;  or  poring 
over  charts;  or  assembling  an  engine;  or  sail- 
ing their  cutters  in  the  Dart;  or  listening  to 
signal  instructors  in  the  gun-rooms ;  or  acquir- 
ing the  principles  of  navigation;  or  collecting 
the  constituents  of  a  variegated  tea  in  the  can- 
teen; or  singing  "God  Save  the  King"  in  chapel 
[561 


Admirals  All— To  Be 

(all  three  verses) ;  or  grappling  with  loga- 
rithms; or  swimming  vociferously  in  the  bath — 
whatever  they  are  doing,  there  seems  to  be  at 
the  back  of  it  the  same  spirit  and  zeal.  Even 
the  four  or  five  offenders  whom  I  saw  expiating 
in  punishment  drill  their  most  recent  misdeeds 
appeared  to  have  a  zest. 

Literature  and  the  Navy  have  always  had 
their  liaison;  and  after  studying  two  or  three 
typical  numbers  of  The  Britannia  Magazine, 
the  organ  of  the  cadets,  I  see  every  chance  of 
a  new  crop  of  Captain  Marryats  and  Basil 
Hoods;  while  there  is  promise  of  an  excellent 
caricaturist  or  so,  too.  Compared  with  the 
ordinary  run  of  school  periodicals,  this  is  rather 
striking.  I  fancy  that  I  discern  a  fresher  and 
more  independent  outlook  and  a  rather  wider 
range  of  interest.  The  natural  history  articles, 
for  example,  are  vmusually  good,  and  some  of 
the  experiences  of  war,  by  midshipmen,  are 
vivid  and  well  done;  and  amid  the  fun  and 
nonsense,  of  which  there  is  a  plentiful  infusion, 
there  is  often  a  sagacious  irony.  Among  this 
fun  I  find,  in  prose,  an  account  of  the  Battle 
of  St.  Vincent,  by  a  young  disciple  of  George 
Ade,  which  would  not  disgrace  a  seriously  comic 
periodical  and  must  be  quoted.  Nelson,  I  should 
premise,  has  just  defeated  the  Spaniards. 
Then— 

[57] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

"Say,  stranger,"  asked  H.  N.,  as  the  dons  mushed 
around  with  their  surrenders,  "is  this  a  business  prop- 
osition or  a  sad-faced  competition  at  a  dime  show?" 

"Gee-whizz !"  said  the  Spanish  Ad.,  "we  reckon 
we're  bored  some.  My  name  is  Muckheap,  and  I 
don't  seem  to  get  gay  any  old  way." 

"Bully  for  you,  old  Corpse- face,"  Nels  replied; 
"hand  out  your  ham-carvers  and  then  run  around  and 
fix  yourself  an  eye-wizzler !" 

And  so  they  passed  in  real  swift. 

And  did  the  British  Fleet  push  in  the  glad  cry 
right  away  when  Nels  put  in  his  entrance?  Why, 
sure! 

As  for  the  verse,  which  is  both  grave  and  hu- 
morous, nothing  gives  me  more  pleasure  and 
satisfaction  than  the  rapid  but  exhaustive  sum- 
mary of  England's  blockading  efforts  at  sea 
in  the  Great  War,  which  begins  thus : 

Observe  how  doth  the   British  Navy 
Baulk  the  Bavarian  of  his  gravy; 
While  the  fat  Boche  from  Koln  to  Munich 
Cannot  expand  to  fill  his  tunic.  .  .   . 

The  British  Navy,  we  know,  "does  not  adver- 
tise"; but  there  is  no  harm  in  its  nestlings  say- 
ing a  good  word  for  it  now  and  then. 

Of  all  the  things  that  I  saw  at  Dartmouth, 
I  shall  retain,  I  think,  longest — against  that 
comely  smiling  background  of  gay  towers  and 
brickwork  on  the  hill — the  memory  of  the 
gymnasium  and  the  swimming  bath.  Compared 
[58] 


Admirals  All— To  Be 

with  Dartmouth's  physical  training,  with  its 
originality,  ingenuity,  thoroughness,  and  keen- 
ness, all  other  varieties  become  unintelligent 
and  savourless.  This  is  fitness  with  fun — and 
is  there  a  better  mixture?  As  for  the  swim- 
ming bath,  it  is  always  the  abode  of  high  spirits, 
but  to  see  it  at  its  best  you  must  go  there  di- 
rectly after  morning  service  on  Sunday.  It  is 
then  that  the  boys  really  become  porpoises — 
or,  rather,  it  is  then  that  you  really  understand 
why  porpoises  are  always  referred  to  as  moving 
in  "schools."  I  know  nothing  of  the  doctrine 
that  is  preached  normally  at  the  College,  for  I 
heard  only  a  sermon  by  a  visiting  dignitary  of 
notable  earnestness  and  eloquence,  but  I  assume 
it  to  be  beyond  question.  If,  however,  a  heresy 
should  ever  be  propounded  no  harm  would  be 
done;  for  the  waters  of  the  swimming  bath 
would  instantly  wash  it  away.  As  one  of  the 
officers  remarked  to  me  (of  course  in  confi- 
dence), he  always  looked  upon  this  after-service 
riot  of  splashing  and  plunging  as  an  instinc- 
tiv^e  corrective  of  theological  excess.  On  these 
occasions  the  bath  becomes  a  very  cauldron, 
bubbling  with  boy. 

It  was  cheering  indeed,  as  I  roamed  about  this 
great  competent  establishment,  to  be  conscious 
of  such  an  undercurrent  of  content  and  joie  de 
vivre.    At  Dartmouth  in  particular  is  this  a  mat- 

[59] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

ter  for  satisfaction^  since  the  College  is  likely 
to  be,  for  the  boys,  a  last  link  with  the  land — 
with  solid  England,  the  England  of  fields  and 
trees  and  games  and  friends — for  many  years. 
Of  all  boys  who  deserve  a  jolly  boyhood,  these 
naval  cadets,  I  think,  come  first;  for  the  sea  is 
a  hard  mistress  and  they  are  plighted  to  her. 
Once  they  embark  as  midshipmen  responsibility 
is  upon  them;  none  of  our  sons  need  to  grow 
up  more  quickly.  As  to  the  glamour  of  the 
sea,  one  of  the  cadet  poets  becomes  lyrical 
about  it — "I  hear,"  he  sings: 

I  hear  the  sea  a-calling. 
Calling  me; 
Calling   of   its   charms. 
Of  its  tempests  and  its  cahns; 

I've  lived  upon  the  mainland. 

But   I'll  die  upon  the  sea! 

May  the  fulfilment  of  his  wish  be  long  deferred ! 
But,  beneath  the  glamour,  the  fact  remains  that, 
for  all  her  pearls,  the  sea  demands  everything 
that  her  sailors  can  give,  often  in  every  kind 
of  danger,  discomfort,  and  dismay;  and  the  divi- 
sion between  herself  and  the  mainland  is  im- 
mense and  profound.  Let  us  rejoice  then  that 
the  mainland  life  of  these  boys  dedicated  to 
her  service  should  be  so  blithe. 


[60] 


A  STUDY  IN  SYMMETRY 

APROPOS  of  admirals,  let  me  tell  you  the 
following   story   which,   however   improb- 
able it  may  seem  to  you,  is  true. 

Once  upon  a  time  there  was  an  artist  with 
historical  leanings  not  unassociated  with  the 
desire  for  pelf — pelf  being,  even  to  idealists, 
what  gasoline  is  to  a  car.  The  blend  brought 
him  one  day  to  Portsmouth,  where  the  Victory 
lies,  with  the  honourable  purpose  of  painting 
a  picture  of  that  famous  ship  with  Nelson  on 
board.  The  Admiral  was  of  course  dying,  and 
the  meritorious  intention  of  the  artist,  whose 
wife  wanted  some  new  curtains,  was  to  make  the 
work  as  attractive  as  might  be  and  thus  ex- 
tract a  little  profit  from  the  wave  of  naval 
enthusiasm  which  was  then  passing  over  the 
country;  for  not  only  was  the  picture  itself  to 
be  saleable,  but  reproductions  were  to  be  made 
of  it. 

Permission  having  been  obtained  from  the 
authorities,  the  artist  boarded  the  Victory,  set 
up  his  easel  on  her  deck,  and  settled  down  to 
his  task,  the  monotony  of  which  was  pleasantly 

[61] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

alleviated  by  the  chatter  of  tlie  old  salts  who 
guard  the  ship  and  act  as  guides  to  the  tourists 
visiting  he(r.  Since  all  these  estimable  men 
not  only  possessed  views  on  art,  but  had  come 
by  now  to  the  firm  belief  that  they  had  person- 
ally fought  with  Nelson  and  witnessed  his  end, 
their  criticisms  were  not  too  easily  combated : 
so  that  the  artist  had  not  a  tedious  moment. 
Thus,  painting,  conversing,  and  learning  (as  one 
can  learn  only  from  a  trained  imparter  of  in- 
formation), three  or  four  days  passed  quickly 
away  and  the  picture  was  done. 

So  far  there  has  been  nothing  to  strain  credu- 
lity.   But  a  time  will  come — is,  in  fact,  upon  us. 

On  the  evening  of  the  last  day,  as  the  artist 
was  sitting  at  early  dinner  with  a  friend  before 
catching  the  London  train,  his  remarks  turned 
(as  an  artist's  sometimes  will)  upon  the  work 
upon  which  he  had  just  been  engaged.  He 
expressed  satisfaction  with  it  in  the  main,  but 
could  not,  he  said,  help  feeling  that  its  chances 
of  becoming  a  real  success  would  be  sensibly  in- 
creased if  he  could  find  as  a  model  for  the 
central  figure  some  one  whose  resemblance  to 
Nelson  was  noticeable. 

"It  seems  to  be  a  law  of  nature,"  he  went  on, 
"that  there  cannot  exist  at  the  same  time — that 
is  to  say,  among  contemporaries — two  faces  ex- 
actly alike.  That  is  an  axiom.  Strange  as  it 
[62] 


A  Study  in  Symmetry 

may  sounds  among  all  the  millions  of  coun- 
tenances with  two  eyes,  a  nose  in  the  middle  and 
a  mouth  below  it,  no  two  precisely  resemble  each 
other.  There  are  differences,  however  slight." 
(He  was  now  beginning  really  to  enjoy  the 
sound  of  his  own  voice.)  "That  is,  as  I  say, 
among  contemporaries :  in  the  world  at  the  mo- 
ment in  which  I  am  speaking.  But,"  he  con- 
tinued, "I  see  no  reason  why  after  the  lapse  of 
years  Nature  should  not  begin  precisely  to  re- 
produce physiognomies  and  so  save  herself  the 
trouble  of  for  ever  varying  them.  That  being 
so,  and  surely  the  hypothesis  is  not  too  far- 
fetched"— Here  his  friend  said,  "No,  not  at 
all — oh  no !" — "that  being  so,  why,"  the  artist 
continued,  "should  there  not  be  at  this  moment, 
more  than  a  century  later,  some  one  whose 
resemblance  to  Nelson  is  exact  .^  He  would 
not  be  necessarily  a  naval  man — probably,  in- 
deed, not,  for  Nelson's  face  was  not  character- 
istic of  the  sea — but  whoever  he  was,  even  if  he 
were  an  archbishop,  I,"  said  the  painter  firmly, 
"should  not  hesitate  to  go  up  to  him  and  ask 
him  to  sit  to  me." 

The  friend  agreed  that  this  was  a  very  proper 
attitude  and  that  it  betokened  true  sincerity  of 
purpose. 

"Nelson's  face,"  the  painter  continued,  "was 
an  uncommon  one.     So  large  and  so  mobile  a 

[63] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

mouth  is  rare.  But  it  is  by  no  means  impos- 
sible that  a  duplicate  exists,  and  no  matter 
who  was  the  owner  of  it,  even  were  he  an 
archbishop,  I  should  not  hesitate  to  go  up  and 
ask  him  to  sit  to  me." 

(For  the  benefit  of  any  feminine  reader  of 
this  veracious  history,  I  should  say  that  the 
repetition  which  she  has  just  noticed  is  not  a 
slip  on  my  part  but  has  been  carefully  set  down. 
It  is  an  attempt  to  give  verisimilitude  to  the 
conversation — because  men  have  a  habit  of  say- 
ing things   like  that  twice.) 

The  friend  again  remarked  that  the  painter's 
resolve  did  him  infinite  credit,  and  the  two 
started  for  the  station,  still  conversing  on  this 
theme. 

On  entering  their  carriage  the  first  thing  to 
take  their  attention  was  a  quiet  little  man  in 
black,  who  was  the  absolute  double  of  the  hero 
of  Trafalgar. 

"Good  gracious !"  whispered  the  painter  ex- 
citedly, "do  you  see  that?  There's  the  ver}' 
man.  The  likeness  to  Nelson  is  astonishing.  I 
never  saw  anything  like  it.  I  don't  care  who  he 
is,  I  must  tackle  him.  It's  the  most  extraor- 
dinary chance  that  ever  occurred." 

Assuming  his  most  silky  and  deferential 
manner — for,  though  clearly  not  an  archbishop, 
unless  in  mufti,  this  might  yet  be  a  person 
[64] 


A  Study  in  Symmetry 

of  importance — the  painter  approached  the 
stranger  and  tendered  a  card. 

"I  trust,  sir,  that  you  will  excuse  me,"  he 
began,  "for  the  liberty  I  am  taking,  but  I  am 
an  artist  and  I  happen  to  be  engaged  on  a 
picture  of  Nelson  on  the  Victory.  I  have  all 
the  accessories  and  so  forth,  but  what  I  very 
seriously  need  is  a  brief  sitting  from  some 
gentleman  with  a  likeness  to  the  great  Ad- 
miral. Such,  sir,  as  yourself.  It  may  be  news 
to  you — it  probably  is — but  you,  sir,  if  I  may 
say  so,  are  so  like  the  famous  and  immortal 
warrior  as  almost  to  take  one's  breath  away.  It 
is  astonishing,  wonderful !  Might  I — would  it 
be — could  you — would  you,  sir,  be  so  very  kind 
as  to  allow  me  to  paint  you  ?  I  would,  of  course, 
make  every  effort  not  to  inconvenience  you — I 
would  arrange  so  that  your  time  should  be 
mine." 

"Of  course  I  will,  guvnor,"  said  the  man. 
"Being  a  professional  model,  I've  been  sitting 
for  Nelson  for  years.  AVhy,  I've  been  doing  it 
for  a  nartist  this  very  afternoon." 


[65] 


DAVY  JONES 

A  NAVAL  gentleman  of  importance  having 
asked  me  who  the  original  Davy  Jones 
was,  I  was  rendered  mute  and  ashamed.  The 
shame  ought  properly  to  have  been  his,  since 
he  is  in  the  Admiralty,  where  the  secrets  of  the 
sea  should  be  known,  and  is  covered  with  but- 
tons and  gold  braid ;  but  there  is  caprice  in  these, 
matters,  and  it  is  I  Tas  a  defaulting  literary 
person)  who  felt  it. 

I  left  with  bent  head,  determined,  directly  I 
reached  London  and  books  were  again  acces- 
sible, to  find  the  answer.  But  have  I  found  it? 
You  shall  decide. 

I  began  with  a  "Glossary  of  Sea  Terms," 
which  is  glib  enough  about  the  meaning  of 
Davy  Jones's  locker  but  silent  as  to  derivation. 
I  passed  on  to  "The  Oxford  Dictionary,"  there 
to  find  the  meaning  more  precisely  stated,  after 
directions  how  to  pronounce  Davy's  name.  You 
or  I  would  assume  that  he  should  be  pronounced 
as  he  is  spelt:  just  Davy;  but  the  late  Dr.  Mur- 
ray knew  better.  You  don't  say  Davy ;  you  say 
De.vi.  Having  invented  and  solved  these  diffi- 
[66] 


Davy  Jones 

culties,  the  Dictionary  proceeds:  "Nautical 
slang.  The  spirit  of  the  sea,  the  sailor's  devil. 
Davy  Jones's  locker:  the  ocean,  the  deep,  espe- 
cially as  the  grave  of  those  who  perish  at  sea." 
Among  the  authors  cited  is  Smollett  in  "Pere- 
grine Pickle,"  and  also  one  J.  Willock,  to  whom 
I  shall  return  later. 

Still  on  the  search  for  an  origin  of  Davy 
Jones  I  went  next  to  "The  Dictionary  of  Na- 
tional Biography"  (which,  if  only  you  could  get 
it  ashore,  is,  no  matter  what  the  pundits  say 
as  to  the  Bible  and  Boswell  and  Plato  and 
"The  Golden  Treasury,"  and  so  forth,  the  best 
book  for  a  desert  island),  and  there  I  found  no 
fewer  than  eight  David  Joneses,  all  of  course 
Welsh,  not  one  of  whom,  however,  could  pos- 
sibly claim  any  connexion  with  our  hero;  three 
being  hymn-writers  and  antiquaries,  one  a  re- 
vivalist, one  a  soldier  and  translator,  one  a  bar- 
rister, one  a  missionary  to  Madagascar  (the  only 
one  who  knew  anything  of  the  sea),  and  one  a 
mad  preacher  whose  troubles  caused  his  "coal- 
black  hair  to  turn  milk-white  in  a  night" — as 
mine  seemed  likely  soon  to  do.  However,  I  then 
bethought  me  of  what  I  should  have  done  first, 
and  seeking  the  shelves  where  "Notes  and 
Queries"  reside  was  at  once  rewarded.  For 
"Notes  and  Queries"  had  tackled  the  problem 
and  done  with  it  as  long  ago  as  1851.    On  June 

[67] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

14  of  that  year  Mr.  Henry  Campkin  requested 
the  little  paper  (which,  since  Captain  Cuttle 
provided  it  with  its  excellent  motto,  should  have 
a  certain  friendliness  towards  nautical  ques- 
tions) to  help  him.  Mr.  Campkin,  however, 
did  not,  as  my  Admiralty  friend  did,  say,  "By 
the  way,  who  the  devil  was  Davy  Jones?"  He 
asked,  as  a  gentleman  should,  in  gentlemanly, 
if  precise,  terms:  "Who  was  the  important  in- 
dividual whose  name  has  become  so  powerful 
a  myth?  And  what  occasioned  the  identification 
of  the  ocean  itself  with  the  locker  of  this  mys- 
terious person?" 

]\Ir.  Campkin,  who  obviously  should  have  oc- 
cupied a  seat  in  the  House  of  Commons,  was 
answered  in  record  time,  much  quicker  than 
would  be  his  fortune  to-day;  for  on  June  21 
Mr.  Pemberton,  the  only  reader  of  "Notes  and 
Queries"  ever  to  take  up  the  challenge,  made 
his  reply,  and  with  that  reply  our  knowledge 
begins  and  ends.  Mr.  Pemberton  said  that 
being  himself  a  seafarer  and  having  given 
much  consideration  to  the  question,  he  had  come 
at  length  to  the  conclusion  that  the  name  of 
Davy  Jones  was  derived  from  the  prophet  Jonah 
(who,  of  course,  was  not  Welsh  at  all  but  an 
Israelite).  Jonah,  if  not  exactly  a  sailor,  had 
had  his  marine  adventures,  and  in  his  prayer 
thus  refers  to  them:  "The  waters  compassed 
[68] 


Davy  Jones 

me  about  .  .  .  the  depth  closed  me  round 
about,  the  weeds  were  wrapped  about  my  head," 
and  so  forth.  The  sea,  then,  Mr.  Pemberton 
continued,  "might  not  be  misappropriately 
termed  by  a  rude  mariner  Jonah's  locker"; 
while  Jonah  would  naturally  soon  be  familiar- 
ised into  Jones,  and  since  all  Joneses  hail  from 
the  country  from  Avhose  valleys  and  mountains 
Mr.  Lloyd  George  derives  his  moving  perora- 
tions, and  since  most  Welshmen  (Mr.  Lloyd 
George  being  no  exception)  are  named  Davy, 
how  natural  that  "Davy  Jones"  should  emerge ! 
That  was  Mr.  Pemberton's  theory,  and  the  only 
one  which  I  have  discovered ;  but  I  am  sure  that 
Mrs.  Gamp  would  supjoort  him — although  she 
might  prefer  to  substitute  for  the  word  "locker" 
the  word  which  comic  military  poets  always 
rhyme  to  "reveille." 

But,  indeed,  the  more  one  thinks  of  it,  the 
more  reasonable  does  the  story  seem ;  for,  as  Mr. 
Pemberton  might  have  gone  on  to  say,  there 
is  further  evidence  for  linking  up  Jonah  and 
Jones  in  the  genus  of  fish  which  swallowed  the 
prophet  but  failed  to  retain  him.  To  a  dialec- 
tician of  any  parts  the  fatal  association  of 
whales  and  Wales  would  be  child's  play.  Later 
I  found  that  Dr.  Brewer  of  "The  Dictionary 
of  Phrase  and  Fable"  supports  the  Jonah  theory 
whole-heartedlv ;  but  he  goes  on — to  my  mind 

[69] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

very  unnecessarily — to  derive  "Davy"  from 
""duiFy,"  a  West  Indian  spirit.  Thus,  says 
he,  Davy  Jones's  locker  is  really  Duffy  Jonah's 
locker — that  is,  the  bottom  of  the  sea,  or  the 
place  where  the  sailors  intended  to  consign 
Jonah.  The  confusion  is  rather  comic.  First, 
a  man  of  God  whom  the  crew  throws  overboard. 
Secondly  a  fish,  divinelv  sent  to  save  the  man 
of  God.  Thirdly,  the  use  of  the  man  of  God's 
name  to  signify  the  sailor's  devil,  with  himself 
as  sinister  ruler  of  an  element  which  he  had  the 
best  reasons  for  hating.     Thus  do  myths  grow. 

So  much  for  Davy  Jones.  J.  Willock,  how- 
ever, another  of  the  authorities  whom  "The 
Oxford  Dictionary"  cites,  plunges  us  into  a 
further  mystery.  In  one  of  his  Voyages  he 
says:  "The  great  bugbear  of  the  ocean  is  Davie 
Jones.  At  the  crossing  of  the  line  they  call  out 
that  Davie  Jones  and  his  wife  are  coming  on 
board.   ..." 

"And  his  wife"! 

But  with  the  identity  of  Mrs.  Davy  Jones  I 
refuse  to  concern  myself — not  even  though  the 
whole  Board  of  Admiralty  command  it. 


[70] 


THE  MAN  OF  ROSS 

I  HAVE  several  reasons  for  remembering 
Ross,  but  the  first  is  that  a  visit  to  that 
grey  hillside  town  sent  me  to  the  authorities 
for  more  particulars  concerning  John  Kyrle. 
Others  are  the  intensity  and  density  of  the  rain 
that  can  fall  in  Herefordshire;  the  sundial  on 
Wilton  Bridge;  and  the  most  elementary  Roman 
Catholic  chapel  I  ever  saw — nothing  but  a  bare 
room — made,  however,  when  I  pushed  open  the 
door  on  that  chill  and  aqueous  afternoon,  cheer- 
ful and  smiling  by  its  full  complement  of  votive 
candles  all  alight  at  once.  In  the  honour  of 
what  Saint  they  burned  so  gaily,  like  a  little 
mass  meeting  of  flames,  I  cannot  say,  but  prob- 
ably the  Gentle  Spirit  of  Padua,  who  not  only 
befriends  all  tender  young  things  but,  it  is 
notorious,  if  properly  approached,  can  find  again 
whatever  you  have  lost;  and  most  people  have 
lost  something.  I  remember  Ross  also  because 
I  had  Dickens's  Letters  (that  generous  feast) 
with  me,  and  behold !  on  the  wall  of  the  hotel, 
whose  name  I  forget  but  which  overlooks  the 
sinuous  Wye,  was  his  autograph  and  an  intima- 

[71] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

tion  that  under  that  very  roof  the  novelist  had 
arranged  with  Jolin  P'orster  the  details  of  his 
last  American  tour. 

But  these  are  digressions.  The  prime  boast 
of  Ross  is  that  it  had  a  Man;  and  this  Man 
is  immanent.  You  cannot  raise  your  eyes  in 
Ross  veithout  encountering  a  reminder  of  its 
Manhood,  its  Manliness ;  and  the  uninstructed, 
as  they  wander  hither  and  thither,  naturally  be- 
come more  and  more  curious  as  to  his  identity: 
how  he  obtained  the  definite  article  and  the 
capital  M  so  definitely — The  Man — and  what 
was  his  association  with  the  place. 

I  cannot  lay  claim  personally  to  total  unin- 
struction.  I  remembered  faintly  Pope's  lines 
which  made  the  fame  of  the  Man,  but  I  retained 
only  a  general  impression  of  them  as  praising  a 
public  benefactor  who  did  astonishing  things  on 
a  very  small  income  and  thus  was  to  put  to 
shame  certain  men  of  wealth  in  Pope's  day  who 
did  for  their  fellow  creatures  nothing  at  all. 
But  nowhere  could  I  find  the  lines.  The  guide- 
books refer  to  them  lightly  as  though  they  were 
in  every  consciousness,  and  pass  on.  No  shop 
had  a  copy  of  Pope;  none  of  the  picture  post- 
cards quoted  them ;  they  were  not  on  the  monu- 
ment in  the  church ;  they  were  nowhere  in  the 
hotel.  And  this  is  odd,  because  it  was  probably 
not  until  the  illustrious  London  poet  had  set  the 
[72] 


The  Man  of  Ross 

seal  of  his  approval  on  their  late  townsman  and 
benefactor  that  the  people  of  Ross  realised  not 
only  how  very  remarkable  had  he  been,  but  also 
that  to  be  associated  with  such  a  personage 
might  mean  both  distinction  and  profit.  For  the 
phrase  "The  Man  of  Ross"  is  now  everywhere: 
lie  who  once  fathered  orphans  and  the  unfor- 
tunate now  spreads  his  cloak  over  tea-shops, 
inns,  and  countless   commercial  ventures. 

Here,  however,  is  the  passage,  from  the  third 
Moral  Epistle.  P.  the  poet,  it  will  be  recalled, 
is  moralising  on  riches,  in  metrical  conversation 
with  B. — Lord  Bathurst)  : — 

P.     Rise,  honest  Muse!  and  sing  the  Man  of  Ross: 
Pleased  Vaga  echoes  through  her  winding  bounds, 
And  rapid  Severn  hoarse  applause  resounds. 
Who    hung    with    woods    yon    mountain's    sultry 

brow? 
From  the  dry  rock  who  bade  the  waters  flow? 
Not  to  the  skies  in  useless  columns  tost, 
Or  in  proud  falls  magnificently  lost, 
But  clear  and  artless,  pouring  through  the  plain 
Health  to  the  sick  and  solace  to  the  swain. 
AVhose  causeway  parts  the  vale  with  shady  rows? 
Whose  seats  the  weary  traveller  repose? 
Who  taught  that  heaven-directed  spire  to   rise? 
"The  Man  of  Ross,"  each  lisping  babe  replies. 
Behold   the   market-place   with   poor   o'erspread! 
The  Man  of  Ross  divides  the  weekly  bread; 
He  feeds  yon  almshouse,  neat,  but  void  of  state. 
Where  Age  and  Want  sit  smiling  at  the  gate; 

[73] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

Him     portioned     maids,     apprenticed     orphans, 
blessed 

The  young  who  labour,  and  the  old  who  rest. 

Is  any  sick?     The  Man  of  Ross  relieves. 

Prescribes,  attends,  the  med'clne  makes  and  gives. 

Is   there   a  variance?   enter  but  his   door, 

Balk'd  are  the  courts,  and  contest  is  no  more. 

Despairing  Quacks  with  curses  fled  the  place. 

And  vile  attorneys,  now  an  useless  race. 
B.     Thrice  happy  man !  enabled  to  pursue 

What  all  so  wish,  but  want  the  power  to  do ! 

Oh  say,  what  sums  that  generous  hand  supply? 

What  mines,  to  swell  that  boundless  charity? 
P.     Of  Debts  and  Taxes,  Wife  and  Children  clear, 

This  man  possest — five  hundred  pounds  a  year. 

Blush,  Grandeur,  blush !  proud  Courts,  withdraw 
your  blaze! 

Ye,  little  Stars!  hide  your  diminished  rays. 
B.     And  what?  no  monument,  inscription,  stone? 

His  race,  his  form,  his  name  almost  unknown? 
P.     Who  builds  a  church  to  God,  and  not  to  fame. 

Will  never  mark  the  marble  with  his  name: 

Go,  search  it  there,*  where  to  be  born  and  die. 

Of  rich  and  poor  makes  all  the  history; 

Enough,  that  Virtue  filled  the  space  between; 

Prov'd,  by  the  ends  of  being,  to  have  been. 
*  In  the   Parish   Register. 

If  the  impression  conveyed  by  those  lines  is 
that  the  Man  of  Ross  was  more  of  a  saint  than 
a  Herefordshire  squire,  the  fault  is  the  poet's 
and  in  part  his  medium's.  The  Augustan  coup- 
let tended  to  a  heightening,  deliumanising  effect. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  John  Kyrle  would  seem  to 
[74] 


The  Man  of  Ross 

have  soared  not  at  all:  the  plainest  and  most 
direct  of  men,  he  took  to  altruism  and  municipal 
improvements  very  much  as  his  neighbours  took 
to  agriculture  or  aock-fighting.  It  was  his 
amusement  or  hobby  to  make  Ross  a  more  liv- 
able-in  place. 

But  before  the  poem  is  <;xamined  more  closelj'^, 
let  me  give  the  outline  of  John  Kyrle's  life. 
His  father  was  Walter  Kyrle  of  Ross,  a  bar- 
rister and  J. P.,  and  M.P.  for  Leominster  in  the 
Long  Parliament.  John  was  born  on  May  22nd, 
1637,  and  educated  at  Ross  Grammar  School 
and  Balliol  College.  He  then  passed  on  to 
the  Middle  Temple,  but  on  succeeding  to  his 
father's  property,  worth  about  £600  a  year, 
he  settled  down  at  Ross  and  commenced  philan- 
thropy, and  never  relaxed  his  efforts  until  his 
death  many  years  later.  He  lived  in  the  house 
opposite  the  very  charming  Market-hall,  un- 
married, and  cared  for  by  a  relation  named 
Miss  Judith  Bubb.  He  sat  commonly  in  a 
huge  and  very  solid  chair,  established  on  its 
stout  legs  like  a  rock,  which  I  saw  not  long 
since  in  the  window  of  Mr.  Simmonds'  old 
curiosity  shop  in  Monmouth,  where  it  serves  as 
a  show  and  a  lure.  According  to  a  portrait  of 
the  Man  of  Ross  which  exists,  made  surrepti- 
tiously (for  he  would  have  none  of  your  lim- 
ners) as  he  sat  at  worship,  he  was  tall,  broad- 

[75] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

shouldered,  of  sanguine  complexion,  with  a  big 
nose.  He  wore  a  brown  suit  ond  a  short  bushy 
wig,  and  he  had  a  loud  voice.  He  visited  a 
dame's  school  once  a  week,  and  on  hearing  of 
any  delinquency  would  reprimand  the  infant  in 
these  words:  "Od's  bud,  Od's  bud,  but  I  will 
mend  you !"  A  burly  man  with  a  red  face,  big 
nose,  and  loud  voice  speaking  thus  might,  to 
the  young,  be  a  too  terrifying  object,  but  we 
must  guess  that  John  Kyrle  tempered  the  wind. 
"The  Dictionary  of  National  Biography"  says 
that  although  tradition  gives  Kyrle  credit  for 
releasing  poor  debtors  and  starting  them  on  new 
careers,  and  that  altliough  for  so  long,  as 
Pope  tells  us,  he  stood  between  attorney  and 
litigant,  the  law  was  ultimately  too  much  for 
him,  and  he  too  became  involved  in  a  suit.  He 
lived  to  be  eighty-seven,  dying  of  sheer  old 
age  on  November  7th,  172i.  His  body  lay  in 
state  in  the  church  of  Ross  for  nine  days  and 
was  then  buried  without  a  head-stone. 

For  the  prose  of  Kyrle's  life  and  achieve- 
ments, as  distinguished  from  Pope's  poetry,  we 
have  to  go  first  to  the  diary  of  Thomas  Heam 
the  antiquary.  Under  the  date  April  9th,  1732- 
33,  Heam  writes:  "He  (John  Kirle  or  Kyrle) 
was  a  very  humble,  good-natured  man.  He  was 
a  man  of  little  or  no  literature.  He  always 
studied  to  do  what  good  charitable  offices  he 
[761 


The  Man  of  Ross 

■could^  and  was  always  pleased  when  an  object 
offered.  He  was  reverenced  and  respected  by 
all  people.  He  used  to  drink  and  entertain  with 
cider,  and  was  a  sober  discreet  man.  He  would 
tell  people  when  they  dined  or  supped  with  him 
that  he  could  (if  they  pleased)  let  them  have 
wine  to  drink,  but  that  his  own  drink  was  cider, 
and  that  he  found  it  most  agreeable  to  him,  and 
he  did  not  care  to  be  extravagant  with  his  small 
fortune.  His  estate  was  five  hundred  pounds 
per  annum,  and  no  more,  with  which  he  did 
wonders.  He  built  and  endowed  a  hospital, 
and  built  the  spire  of  Ross.  When  any  litigious 
suits  fell  out,  he  would  always  stop  them  and 
prevent  people's  going  to  law.  They  would, 
when  differences  happened,  say,  go  to  'the  great 
man  of  Ross,  or,  which  they  did  more  often,  go 
to  'the  man  of  Ross,'  and  he  will  decide  the 
matter.  He  left  a  nephew,  a  man  good  for  little 
or  nothing.  He  would  have  given  all  from  him, 
but  a  good  deal  being  entailed  he  could  not. 
He  smoked  tobacco,  and  would  generally  smoke 
two  pipes  if  in  company,  either  at  home  or 
elsewhere." 

A  year  later  Hearn  corrected  certain  of  these 
statements.  Thus:  "1734.  April  16.  Mr.  Pope 
had  the  main  of  his  information  about  Mr. 
Kirle,  commonly  called  the  Man  of  Ross 
(whom   he   characterizeth   in   his   poem   of  the 

[77] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

'Use  of  Riches')  from  Jacob  Tonson  the  book- 
seller, who  hath  purchased  an  estate  of  about  a 
thousand  a  year,  and  lives  in  Herefordshire, 
a  man  that  is  a  great,  snivelling,  poor-spirited 
whigg,  and  good  for  nothing  that  I  know  of. 
Mr.  Brome  tells  me  in  his  letter  from  Ewith- 
ington  on  November  23rd,  1733,  that  he  does 
not  think  the  truth  is  strained  in  any  particu- 
lars of  the  character,  exccjjt  it  be  in  his  being 
founder  of  the  church  and  spire  of  Ross  .  .  . 
but  he  was  a  great  benefactor;  and  at  the  re- 
casting of  the  bells  gave  a  tenor,  a  large  bell. 
Neither  does  Mr.  Brome  find  he  was  founder  of 
any  hospital,  and  he  thinks  his  knowledge  in 
medicine  extended  no  further  than  kitchen  phy- 
sick,  of  which  he  was  very  liberal,  and  might 
thereby   preserve   many   lives. 

"April  18.  Yesterday  ]\Ir.  Matthew  Gibson, 
minister  of  Abbey  Dore  in  Herefordshire,  just 
called  upon  me.  I  asked  him  whether  he  knew 
Mr.  Kirle,  commonly  called  the  Man  of  Ross. 
He  said  he  did  very  well,  and  that  his  (Mr. 
Matthew  Gibson's)  wife  is  his  near  relation;  I 
think  he  said  he  was  her  uncle.  I  told  him  the 
said  Man  of  Ross  was  an  extraordinary  chari- 
table, generous  man,  and  did  much  good.  He 
said  he  did  do  a  great  deal  of  good,  but  that 
was  all  out  of  vanity  and  ostentation,  being  the 
vainest  man  living,  and  that  he  always  hated  his 
[78] 


The  ]Man  of  Ross 

relations  and  would  never  look  upon,  or  do 
anything  for  them,  though  many  of  them  were 
very  poor.  I  know  not  what  credit  to  give  to 
Mr.  Gibson  in  that  account,  especially  since  this 
same  Gibson  hath  more  than  once,  in  my  pres- 
ence, spoke  inveterately  against  that  good  honest 
man  Dr.  Adam  Ottley,  late  Bishop  of  St. 
David's.  Besides,  this  Gibson  is  a  crazed  man, 
and  withall  stingy,  though  he  be  rich,  and 
hath  no  child  by  his  wife." 

Another  authority,  more  or  less  a  contem- 
porary, on  the  Man  of  Ross  was  Thomas 
Hutcheson,  barrister,  a  descendant  who  became 
the  owner  of  Kyrle's  property.  According  to 
him  Pope's  questioning  line: — 
Who  hung  with  woods  yon  mountain's  sultry  brow? 

rather  too  sumptuously  covers  the  planting  of 
a  "long  shady  walk,  of  nearly  a  mile  and  a 
half  .  .  .  called  Kyrle's  Walks,  on  the  sum- 
mit of  the  eminence  commanding  a  beautiful 
prospect  of  the  Wye."  The  poet's  next  query: — 
From  the  dry  rock  who  bade  the  waters  flow? 

is  answered  thus :  "The  Man  of  Ross  promoted, 
and  partly  assisted  by  his  own  pecuniary  aid, 
the  erection  of  a  small  water  work  near  the 
river  Wye,  which  supplied  the  town  of  Ross  with 
water,    in    which   article    it   was    very    deficient 

"  [79] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

before."  A  further  commentary  was  drawn  from 
Mr.  Hutcheson  by  the  couplet: — 

Behold  the  market-place  with  poor  o'erspread  1 
The  Man  of  Ross  divides  the  weekly  bread. 

"He  kept  open  house  every  market-day;  any 
person  without  distinction  might  meet  on  that 
day  at  his  hospitable  board,  which,  according 
to  the  stories  related  to  me  by  some  old  ten- 
ants, consisted  of  a  joint  of  meat  of  each  sort. 
The  poor,  who  were  always  in  waiting  on  that 
day,  and  every  other,  had  distributed  to  them, 
by  his  own  superintendence,  the  whole  of  the 
remains  of  each  day,  besides  continual  distribu- 
tions of  bread,  etc." 

As  to  Pope's  question : — 
Whose  causeway  parts  the  vale  with  shady  rows? 

it  seems  that  the  poet  was  desperately  out.  The 
causeway  connecting  the  town  with  the  river 
dated  from  before  the  fourteenth  century,  but 
Kyrle  probably  saw  to  its  proper  maintenance. 

Finally,  let  us  see  what  the  Sage  of  Fleet 
Street  has  to  say  to  the  statement: — 

The  Man  possest — five  hundred  pounds  a  year, 

and  its  implication  that  everything  was  done 
on  that  sum.  In  the  critical  notice  of  Pope 
in  "The  Lives  of  the  Poets,"  Dr.  Johnson  re- 
marks:  "Wonders   are  willingly   told  and  will- 

[80] 


The  Man  of  Ross 

ingly  heard.  The  truth  is,  that  Kyrle  was  a 
man  of  known  integrity  and  active  benevolence, 
by  whose  solicitation  the  wealthy  were  persuaded 
to  pay  contributions  to  his  charitable  schemes; 
this  influence  he  obtained  by  an  example  of 
liberality  exerted  to  the  utmost  extent  of  his 
power,  and  was  thus  enabled  to  give  more  than 
he  had.  This  account  !Mr.  Victor  received  from 
the  Minister  of  the  place,  and  I  have  preserved 
it,  that  the  praise  of  a  good  man  being  made 
more  credible,  may  be  more  solid.  Narrations 
of  romantic  and  impracticable  virtue  will  be 
read  with  wonder,  but  that  which  is  unattainable 
is  recommended  in  vain ;  that  good  may  be  en- 
deavoured, it  must  be  shown  to  be  practicable." 
So  much  for  all  the  advocates — angeli  and 
diaboli !  But  I  think  we  need  pay  little  atten- 
tion to  Mr.  Gibson's  testimony.  Even  though 
he  were  in  part  right,  and  a  tinge  of  self-esteem 
or  love  of  applause  crept  into  the  Man's  bene- 
factions, they  remain  benefactions  no  less,  cost- 
ing him  as  much  money,  and  reaching  the  same 
goals.  But  away  with  such  belittlings !  Let 
us  rather  remember  that  the  Rev.  IMatthew  Gib- 
son was  crazed,  stingy  withal,  and  had  no  child 
by  his  wife.  Personally  I  agree  with  my  friend 
Mr.  A.  L.  Humphreys,  who  has  put  it  on  record 
that,  in  his  belief,  it  would  be  a  good  thing 
if  every  parish  had  a  Man  of  Ross  in  prefer- 

rsi] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

ence  to  a  parson.  No  harm  necessarily  in  a 
parson  as  well,  but  the  Man  is  more  important. 
At  least  one  more  poetical  tribute  from 
genius  did  John  Kyrle  win.  Among  the  Juvenile 
Poems  of  Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge  is  this: — 

Lines  written  at  the  King's  Arms,  Ross,  form- 
erly the  house  of  the  "Man  of  Ross." 

Richer  than   Miser  o'er  his  countless  hoards. 
Nobler  than   Kings,  or  king-polluted   Lords, 
Here  dwelt  the  Man  of  Ross!     O,  Traveller,  hear! 
Departed   Merit  claims  a  reverent  tear. 
Friend  to  the  friendless,  to  the  sick  man  health. 
With  generous  joj'  he  viewed  his  modest  wealth; 
He   heard   the   widow's  heaven-breathed   prayer   of 

praise, 
He  marked  the  sheltered  orphan's  tearful  gaze. 
Or  where   the   sorrow-shrivelled   captive   lay. 
Poured    the    bright    blaze    of    Freedom's    noon-tide 

ray. 
Beneath  this  roof  if  thy  cheered  moments  pass, 
Fill  to  the  good  man's  name  one  grateful  glass: 
To  higher  zest  shall  Memory  wake  thy  soul. 
And  Virtue  mingle  in  the  ennobled  bowl. 
But  if,  like  me,  through  life's  distressful  sceije 
Lonely   and   sad   thy  j)ilgrimage   hath   been; 
And  if  thy  breast  with  heart-sick  anguish  fraught, 
Thou  journcyest  onward  tempest-tossed  in  thought; 
Here  cheat  thy  cares !  in  generous  visions  melt. 
And  dream  of  goodness  thou  hast  never  felt ! 

The    sad    and    lonely    poet,    tempest-tossed    in 
thought,  who  wrote  those  lines,  was  then  twenty- 
[821 


The  Man  of  Ross 

one,  on  a  walking  tour  with  his  friend  Hucks, 
trying  to  construct  Pantisocracy  and  forget 
Mary  Evans. 

For  one  "of  little  or  no  literature"  the  Man 
of  Ross  did  not  do  so  badly. 

But  there  was  even  more  honour  to  come. 
When^  in  1876,  the  late  Miranda  Hill  addressed 
a  public  letter  to  "Those  who  love  Beautiful 
Things/'  and  called  upon  her  readers  to  help 
in  getting  more  sweetness  and  light  into  the 
homes  of  the  poor,  and  particularly  the  poor  of 
London,  the  response  took  the  form  of  a  So- 
ciety to  which  the  name  of  John  K3'rle  was 
(at  the  suggestion  of  Mr.  Benjamin  Nattalie) 
given:  the  Kyrle  Society.  During  its  many 
years  of  activity,  the  Kyrle  Society  has  done 
much  to  realise  the  idealism  of  its  founders — 
for  with  Miranda  Hill  was  associated  her  sister, 
the  late  Octavia  Hill,  that  indomitable  fighter 
for  all  that  is  good  and  ameliorative  in  life, 
whom,  in  her  serene  old  age,  a  symphony  in  grey 
and  silver,  I  used  often  to  see  walking  on  that 
height  above  Crockham  Hill  which  her  energies 
acquired  for  the  nation  as  an  open  space  for 
ever.  In  a  speech  which  she  made  at  one  of 
the  meetings  of  the  Kyrle  Society  not  long  be- 
fore her  death,  Octavia  Hill  thus  summed  up 
certain  of  the  needs  which  that  excellent  or- 
ganisation strove  to  supply.     "Men,  women,  and 

[83] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

children,"  she  said,  "want  more  tlian  food, 
shelter,  and  warmth.  They  want,  if  their  lives 
are  to  be  full  and  good,  space  near  their  homes 
for  exercise,  quiet,  good  air,  and  sight  of  grass, 
trees,  and  flowers ;  they  want  colour,  which  shall 
cheer  them  in  the  midst  of  smoke  and  fog;  they 
want  music,  which  shall  contrast  with  the  rattle 
of  the  motors  and  lift  their  hearts  to  praise  and 
joy;  they  want  suggestion  of  nobler  and  better 
things  than  those  that  surround  them  day  by 
day.  ...  I  assure  you  that  I  believe  these 
things  have  more  influence  on  the  spirit  than  we 
are  at  all  accustomed  to  remember.  They  cul- 
tivate a  sense  of  dignity  and  self-respect,  as 
well  as  breaking  the  monotony  of  life." 

These  things  has  the  Kyrle  Society  dispensed 
and  will  continue  to  dispense,  among  its  count- 
less and  noble  activities ;  and  it  is  pleasant  to 
think  tliat  that  stolid  old  Man  of  Ross,  in  this 
new  incarnation,  has  become  so  imaginatively 
sympathetic.  How  little  can  he  ever  have 
thought  of  this  transmutation  of  his  kindly  busy- 
bodydom  into  something  so  fine  and  rare !  But 
it  was  a  true  instinct  which  set  liis  ancient 
name  on  the  modern  banner;  and  if  ever  a  new 
motto  is  called  for,  the  merits  of  "Od's  bud, 
Od's  bud,  but  I  will  mend  you!"  should  be  con- 
sidered. 

[84] 


THE  INNOCENT'S  PROGRESS 

ONE  thing  leads  to  another,  and  had  I  not 
entered  Mr.  Simmonds'  old  curiosity  shop 
in  Monmouth  to  make  inquiries  about  the  Man 
of  Ross's  arm-chair,  which  nearly  fills  the  win- 
dow, I  might  never  have  met  "svith  "The  Elegant 
Girl,"  and  "The  Elegant  Girl"  is  one  of  the 
eomeliest  books  I  ever  coveted. 

Having  asked  all  my  questions  about  the 
chair,  which  has  much  of  the  stern  solidity  of 
a  fortress,  I  went  upstairs  and  immediately  was 
rejoiced  by  the  sight  of  one  of  the  engravings 
(Plate  2)  which  are  reproduced  in  this  volume. 
It  was  one,  said  Mr.  Simmonds,  of  a  series, 
and  he  showed  me  eight  others — nine  in  all — 
each  with  its  moral  verses  underneath — and  I 
was  enchanted,  so  delicate  is  the  colouring  and 
so  distinguished  the  design,  so  naive  the  edu- 
cational method  and  so  easy  the  triumph.  The 
reproductions  here  are  absurdly  small — the  size 
of  the  originals  is  9^/4  inches  wide  by  6  high — 
but  though  they  give  nothing  of  the  tinting 
they  retain  something  of  the  spirit,  and  the  very 
striking  composition  is  unimpaired  by  reduction. 

[85] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

Mr.  Simmonds  thought  nine  a  complete  set, 
but  I  felt  that  an  even  number  was  more  prob- 
able, and,  in  time,  was  proved  to  be  right;  but 
it  was  long  before  I  could  obtain  sight  of  the 
other  three  and  discover  that  the}^  belonged  to 
a  book  and  had  been  taken  from  their  binding 
to  decorate  a  nursery's  walls.  There  are  excite- 
ments in  this  form  of  hunt — la  chasse  au  bou- 
qu'in — commensurate  with  those  that  accelerate 
the  pulses  of  wearers  of  pink  coats,  and  some 
were  mine  as  the  scent  grew  hot  and  hotter.  My 
first  coverts  were  the  print  shops,  but  they  were 
blank;  then  I  drew  the  famous  Bloomsbury 
spinneys,  both  the  Reading  Room  and  the  Print 
Room,  but  they  were  blank  too ;  and  then,  tally 
ho!  away  to  the  South  Kensington  gorse.  It 
was  here  I  had  the  luck  to  ascertain — through 
a  reference  to  Tuer's  "Pages  and  Pictures" — 
that  "The  Elegant  Girl"  was  a  book;  and  forth- 
with I  turned  to  my  friends  the  booksellers,  and 
in  High  Street,  ^rarylebone,  got  directly  on  the 
trail,  which  took  me  to  Hampstead,  where  a 
copy  of  the  work  (the  only  one  of  which  I  have 
yet  heard)  was  nm  to  earth.  It  is  this  copy 
that  now  lies  before  me — the  property  of  Mr. 
C.  T.  Owen,  a  famous  collector  of  what  the 
trade  calls  "juveniles,"  who  has  very  kindly 
permitted  the  plates  to  be  photographed  for 
the  present  volume. 
[86] 


The  Innocent's  Progress 

Mr.  Simmonds  thought  the  drawings  the  work 
of  Adam  Buck,  an  artist  of  child  life,  who 
has  latelj''  been  the  mode ;  but  London  experts 
differ.  No  doubt  (they  say)  Buck's  influence 
is  apparent,  but  no  more.  The  only  name  is 
that  of  AlaiS;  the  engraver,  on  the  title-page, 
and  I  do  not  find  that  Alais  ever  worked  for 
Buck,  but  there  are  at  South  Kensington  child 
scenes  by  Singleton  engraved  by  him.  "The 
Elegant  Girl"  may  be  Singleton's.  Equally 
may  the  designs  be  by  a  foreigner,  for  there  is 
a  distinctly  foreign  suggestion  here  and  there, 
notably  in  the  furniture.  The  plates  are  not 
aquatints  but  were  coloured  by  hand:  the  ex- 
treme scarcity  of  the  volume  probably  being  due 
to  this  circumstance,  only  a  small  edition  having 
been  prepared  and  that,  I  should  imagine,  at  a 
high  figure.  To-day,  of  course,  the  value  of  the 
book  is  vastly  higher. 

All,  or  very  nearly  all,  the  old-fashioned 
writers  for  children  had  but  one  purpose  animat- 
ing their  breasts ;  and  that  purpose  was  to  make 
children  better.  I  don't  say  that  to-day  we 
try  to  make  them  worse;  but  their  naughtiness 
can  amuse  us,  as  apparently  it  never  could  our 
ancestors,  and  wild  flowers  can  be  preferred  to 
the  products  of  the  formal  parterre.  Even  Miss 
Edgeworth  came  out  nominally  as  "The  Par- 
ents' Assistant,"  although  her  native  kindliness 

[87] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

and  sense  of  narrative  were  too  much  for  her; 
and  even  she  thouglit  of  tlie  child  too  much  as 
plastic  material.  Children  as  children  excited 
little  interest ;  but  a  child  as  a  progressive  moral 
animal,  susceptible  of  moulding,  a  potential 
adult  and  citizen,  was  worth  making  books  for, 
if  in  return  it  was  responsive  and  mended  its 
ways.  There  were  of  course  a  few  books  for  the 
young  which  told  an  honest  story — Charles  and 
Mary  Lamb's  "Tales  from  Shakespeare"  and 
"Mrs.  Leicester's  School"  are  early  and  shining 
examples — but  the  idea  of  amusement  for  amuse- 
ment's sake  was  rare.  And  nonsense  for  the 
young,  which  later  was  to  become  a  cult,  did 
not  exist  before  Edward  Lear.  Nothing  can, 
of  course,  happen  out  of  its  time,  and  there- 
fore the  speculation  is  idle ;  but  none  the  less 
it  would  be  entertaining  to  visualise  the  effect 
of  "Alice  in  Wonderland"  on  the  little  Fair- 
childs.  Wliat  would  Mr.  Fairchild  say  to  it? 
The  work  of  a  clergj'man,  too !  Would  not  he 
return  with  renewed  relish  to  the  congenial  task 
of  repeating  to  his  brood  Biblical  verses  illus- 
trating the  wickedness  of  man's  heart? 

(Incidentally — but  this  is  not  the  place,  for 
"The  Elegant  Girl"  is  waiting — there  are  some 
interesting  reflections  to  be  recorded  on  the  cir- 
cumstance that  the  entertainment  of  the  young 
has  never  been  in  such  willing  and  safe  hands 
[88] 


The  Innocent's  Progress 

as  those  of  the  celibates.  All  the  writers  I  have 
just  glanced  at  (save  Mrs.  Sherwood)  were  un- 
married. This  need  not  be  taken  as  any  asper- 
sion upon  matrimony — there  must  be  marriage 
and  giving  in  marriage  in  order  that  little  read- 
ers may  exist — but  it  ought  to  be  remembered 
whenever  the  single  state  is  under  criticism. 
Think  of  the  injustice  of  the  foreshadowed 
Bachelor  Tax  falling  upon  Lewis  Carroll!) 

"The  Elegant  Girl/'  the  date  of  which  is 
1813^  sets  out  to  improve  too,  for  this  is  the 
title:  "The  Elegant  Girl,  or  Virtuous  Principles 
the  True  Source  of  Elegant  Manners" ;  but  its 
lessons  are  so  unprejudiced  and  persuasive  that 
no  one  can  object.  Moreover,  a  very  exceptional 
artistic  talent  was  employed:  the  best  available 
rather  than  the  cheapest.  With  such  attractive 
jam,  who  could  resent  the  pill?  Alone,  the  pic- 
tures do  very  little  in  the  didactic  way,  but  to 
the  detached  artist  came  an  ally  in  the  shape  of 
a  gentle — and  probably,  I  think,  female — bard. 
Each  of  the  twelve  drawings  has  a  six-lined 
stanza  to  drive  home  the  picture  and  inculcate 
a  maxim  of  sound  and  refined  behaviour. 

In  the  first  plate  Laura  (the  elegant  girl  is, 
of  course,  named  Laura)  is  seen  in  her  little 
bedroom  at  her  morning  prayers,  and,  thus  forti- 
fied, she  then  goes  through  the  day  in  eleven 
episodes,  all  tending,  as  the  Americans  say,  to 

[89] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

uplift.  Washed  and  dressed^  she  joins,  in  Plate 
No.  2,  her  mother  at  early  lessons  in  a  charming 
library  such  as  neither  Vermeer  nor  Whistler 
would  have  disdained.  According  to  the  verses, 
Laura  is  careless  of  "what  becomes  her  best," 
but  to  the  casual  male  eye  she  seems  to  have 
chosen  her  trousers  with  no  little  discretion. 
Having  sufficiently  "explored  the  arts  and 
sciences,"  she  is,  in  Plate  No.  3,  ready  for 
breakfast,  again  with  her  mother.  Her  father 
was — where  ?  Possibly  he  was  dead ;  possibly 
(the  date  is  1813)  at  the  wars;  probably  still 
in  bed.  At  any  rate  his  daughter  passes  her 
day  of  edification  entirely  without  his  assistance. 
Breakfast  affords  the  oi^portunity  of  a  lesson 
in  practical  philanthropy,  for  chance  sends  a 
beggar  to  the  window,  and  Laura  craves,  and 
is  granted,  permission  to  give  him  food  and 
drink.  In  Plate  No.  4  she  has  a  music  lesson — 
a  lesson  that  "is  not  thrown  away,"  for 
By  Science  taught  with  taste  to  play, 
She'll  charm  erewhile  the  listening  throng 
And  sing  with  modest  grace  her  song. 

In  Plate  No.  5,  having  slipped  a  red  smock 
over  her  dress,  but  still  retaining  the  captivating 
trousers,  Laura  practises  painting.  In  No.  6, 
substituting  a  purple  smock  for  the  red  one, 
she  teaches  the  little  villagers  their  A.B.C. — 
a  form  of  altruistic  employment  which  those 


The  Innocent's  Progress 

can  best  approve 
Who  virtue  and  religion  love. 

In  Plate  No.  7,  Laura,  in  yellow,  acquires  the 
rudiments  of  obedience  and  refrains  from  eat- 
ing forbidden  fruit.  In  Plate  No.  8,  in  green, 
she  carries  food  to  an  aged  dame.  In  Plate 
No.  9j  in  blue,  she  brings  a  cup  of  broth  to  her 
mother,  who,  "languid  and  pale,"  reclines,  like 
Madame  Recamier,  on  an  exceedingly  uncom- 
fortable couch.     It  is  thus  that  Laura, 

in   early   days, 
Maternal  tenderness  repays. 

The  chief  difficulty  of  any  series  of  this  kind 
is,  artists  tell  me,  to  preserve  the  likenesses 
throughout.  In  the  case  of  "The  Elegant  Girl" 
it  has  been  fairly  successfully  overcome,  but 
Laura,  who  at  her  orisons  looks  years  older  than 
■when  becomingly  trousered,  is  never  again  so 
charming  a  child  as  in  the  library  before  break- 
fast; while,  in  the  Plate  which  we  have  now 
reached,  her  mother's  severe  Greek  profile,  so 
noticeable  at  that  frugal  meal,  has  completely 
vanished.  But,  take  jt  all  round,  the  series  is 
maintained  with  credibility  and  a  sprightly 
realism. 

In  Plate  No.  10  the  mother  is  sufficiently 
recovered  to  play  the  harp  while  Laura  bounds 
light  on  agile  feet.     In  No.  1 1  Laura  visits  the 

[91] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

impoverished  sick,  and,  by  reading  the  "sacred 

page/' 

Dries  up  the  widow's  scalding  tears, 
Exalts  her  hopes  and  calhis  her  fears. 

And  finally,  in  crimson,  she  is  presented  by 
her  mother  with  the  guerdon  of  her  day's  good 
conduct,  which  consists  of  several  boxes  of 
odds  and  ends  labelled  "Gifts  for  the  Poor," 
including  a  large  number  of  top  hats — 

Gifts  for  the  Poor  her  own  Reward, 
For  Laura  felt  and  understood 
The  Luxury  of  doing  Good. 

Such  is  the  pretty,  unobtrusive  didactic  scheme 
of  "The  Elegant  Girl."  That  it  is  now  all 
out  of  date  I  am  only  too  well  aware ;  but  it 
would  do  no  great  harm  if  a  reprint  of  the  book 
found  its  way  into  a  few  modern  homes. 


[92] 


THOUGHTS  AT  THE  FERRY 

MY  acquaintance  among  ferrymen  is  not  ex- 
tensive, but  I  cannot  remember  any  that 
were  cheerful.  Perhaps  there  are  none.  The 
one  over  there  at  this  moment,  on  the  other  side, 
for  whom  we  are  waiting  and  who  is  being  so 
deliberate — he  certainly  has  no  air  of  gaiety. 

There  is  a  wealth  of  reasons  for  this  lack  of 
mirth.  To  begin  with,  a  boat  on  a  river  is 
normally  a  vehicle  of  pleasure;  but  the  ferry- 
man's boat  is  a  drudge.  Then,  the  ordinary 
course  of  a  boat  on  a  river  is  up  or  down,  be- 
tween banks  that  can  provide  excitement,  and 
around  bends,  each  one  of  which  may  reveal 
adventure;  but  the  ferryman's  boat  must  con- 
stantly cross  from  side  to  side,  always  from 
the  same  spot  to  the  same  spot  and  back  again, 
which  is  subversive  of  joy.  All  that  the  ferry- 
man knows  of  the  true  purposes  of  a  river  he 
gains  from  observation  of  others,  who  gaily  pass 
him,  pulling  with  the  stream  or  against  it,  and 
singing,  perhaps,  as  they  row.  Did  a  ferry- 
man ever  sing?  There  was,  when  I  was  a 
boy,   a   pretty   song  about   Twickenham    Ferry. 

[93] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

but  my  recollections  of  it  are  that  it  was  the 
passenger  who  sang:  not,  I  fancy,  in  the  boat, 
but  before  he  entered  it.  If  my  memory  is 
right,  the  fact  is  significant.  In  the  company 
of  such  taciturnity  and  gloom  who  could  carol? 

The  ferryman,  again,  must  never  leave  his 
post.  All  the  world  may  go  wayfaring,  but  not 
he.  To  cross  a  river  is  in  itself  nothing;  but 
to  come,  from  somewhere  unknown,  to  the  bank 
of  the  river,  cross  it,  and  pass  on  to  unknown 
bournes  on  the  other  side — that  is  an  enter- 
prise, and  that  is  what  every  one  but  the  ferry- 
man is  doing.  I  have  written  elsewhere — it  is  a 
recurring  theme  of  sympathy — of  the  servants 
of  tlie  traveller  who  live  by  helping  him  on 
his  eventful  way  but  never  participate  in  any 
wanderings — railway  porters,  for  example — and 
the  ferryman  is  perhaps  chief,  because  so  much 
of  the  very  matter  of  romance — a  running 
stream — comes  into  his  daily  routine.  There  he 
is,  in  the  open  air,  with  the  breeze  to  fan  and 
lure  him,  and  the  racing  clouds  to  lift  his 
thoughts,  and  the  exciting  sound  of  water  in  his 
ears:  all  the  enticements  to  rove,  but  he  must 
not  be  a  rover.  For  the  rest  of  us  (as  it  must 
seem  to  him),  exploration;  for  himself,  the 
narrow   confines   of  the  known ! 

And  it  is  a  peculiarity  of  ferrymen  that  when 
you  want  them  they  are  (like  this  reluctant 
[94] 


Thoughts  at  the  Ferry 

fellow)  always  on  the  other  side.  Not  from 
any  natural  desire  to  annoy,  but  through  a  whim 
of  the  gods ;  yet  to  have  to  come  over  empty,  how 
it  must  add  fuel  to  their  misanthropic  fire !  If 
every  journey  were  with  a  fare  the  ferryman 
might  be  a  shade  more  cheerful,  even  though  the 
payment  is  so  trifling.  Was  there  ever  a  rich 
ferryman?  Has  a  whimsical  millionaire  ever 
played  at  being  a  ferryman  ?  Has  a  Carnegie 
ever  left  a  ferrj'man  a  legacy? 

And  then  the  brevit}"  of  their  companion- 
ships !  Not  that  most  ferrymen  seem  to  desire 
human  intercourse;  but  perhaps  they  did  once, 
before  the  monotony  of  their  task  soured  them. 
Down  to  the  boat  come  the  strangers  from  the 
great  world — young  or  old,  forbidding  or  beau- 
tiful, ardent  or  pensive — and  howsoever  the 
ferryman  would  like  to  hold  them  and  talk 
with  them,  no  sooner  does  the  boat  touch  the 
farther  bank  than  they  are  off  again !  Does  not 
that  make  for  a  certain  moroseness  ? 

And  what  was  the  ferryman  before  he  was  a 
ferryman?  For  seldom,  I  should  guess,  is  his 
an  hereditary  post.  Some  kind  of  failure  nor- 
mally precedes ;  and  there  again  is  cause  for 
reticence. 

Such  friends  as  ferrymen  possess  are  usually 
dumb  animals.  I  have  known  more  than  one 
who  carried  his  dog  with  him;  and  once,  on  the 

[95] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

Wye,  I  met  one  whose  companion  was  a  goose. 
No  matter  how  often  the  crossing  had  to  ba 
made,  the  goose  made  it  too.  I  used  the  ferry- 
several  times,  and  we  were  never  without  this 
escort;  and  the  ferryman  (who,  I  am  bound  to 
remark,  hxnniliating  though  it  be,  propelled  his 
boat  from  side  to  side,  not  with  honest  oars,  but 
by  means  of  a  rope)  emerged  suf^ciently  from 
his  apathy  to  praise  the  bird's  fidelity.  "Here," 
thought  I,  "is  surely  the  material  for  a  pertinent 
apologue.  'The  Ferryman  and  the  Goose':  the 
very  title  is  ^Esopian,  Or — to  be  more  satirical 
■ — the  title  might  be  'The  Ferryman  and  the 
Swan,'  the  point  being  that  he  thought  it  was 
a  swan,  but  in  reality  it  was  only  a  goose." 
But  I  had  no  further  inspiration.  And  yet,  by 
a  practised  homilist,  a  good  deal  could  be  done 
with  it  with  which  to  score  off  poor  human  na- 
ture. "Ah !  my  friends" — surely  it  is  fittest  for 
the  pulpit,  after  all — "ah !  my  friends  may 
not  each  of  us  be  as  much  in  error  as  that  poor 
deluded  ferryman?  Let  us  search  our  hearts 
and  answer  truthfully  the  questions:  Do  we 
know  our  friends  as  Ave  ought.''  Does  not  their 
flattery  perhaps  blind  us  to  their  mediocrity? 
In  short,  are  they  swans  or  geese?" 

Ferrymen 

But  here  is  our  man  at  last !    On  close  inspec- 
tion how  dismal  he  looks  ! 
[96] 


A  LITTLE  CHILD 

THE   decision  that  the   governess-cart  must 
be  given  up  meant  that  a  new  owner  for 
PoUy  must  be  found. 

Polly  is  a  roan  pony;  very  round  in  the  bar- 
rel, and  particularly  so  of  late,  when  there  has 
been  no  food  but  meadow-grass.  She  had  been 
with  us  (this  is  my  neighbour's  story,  as  told  ta 
me  during  the  War:  a  very  charming  neigh- 
bour who  keeps  her  temper  at  croquet) — Polly 
had  been  with  us  so  long  as  to  become,  as  ponies 
peculiarly  can,  a  member  of  the  family,  so 
that  to  part  with  her  savoured  of  treachery. 
Necessity,  however,  knows  no  law  and  sanctifies 
no  memory,  and  the  distasteful  preparations 
were  therefore  begun.  The  first  was  the  fram- 
ing of  the  advertisement;  which  is  not  the  simple 
matter  that  it  might  appear  to  be,  because  so 
much  depends  upon  the  choice  of  adjective: 
the  selected  word  must  both  allure  and  (in 
our  case)  keep  within  the  bounds  of  truth. 
What  are  the  qualities  most  valued  in  a  pony, 
we  had  to  ask  ourselves.     Celerity?     Polly  was 

[97] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

fixed  in  her  determination  not  to  exceed  the 
speed  limit,  at  any  rate  on  outward  journeys. 
Willingness  ?  Polly  could  be  desperately  stub- 
born. Strength?  Yes,  she  was  strong.  Youth? 
Well,  she  came  to  us  ten  years  ago  and  she 
was  no  foal  then.  After  much  serious  delibera- 
tion, compared  with  which  Versailles  Confer- 
ences are  mere  exchanges  of  persiflage,  it  was 
decided  to  describe  Polly  either  as  "strong  use- 
ful pony"  or  "useful  strong  pony."  Further 
deliberations  fixed  the  phrase  as  "Pony,  strong, 
useful,"  and  the  advertisement  was  despatched 
to  the  local  rag,  as  our  very  worthy  county 
chronicle  is  too  often  called. 

Next  came  the  question  of  what  price  was  to 
be  asked.  Here  expert  opinion  was  resorted  to, 
in  the  shape  of  Mr.  Edmead,  the  butcher.  No 
one  knows  more  about  ponies  than  butchers  do, 
and  Mr.  Edmead  is  exceptionally  wise. 

"Taking  everything  into  consideration,"  he 
said,  "I  think  that  twenty-five  pounds  would  be 
a  fair  price." 

We  clung  to  each  other  for  support.  Twenty- 
five  pounds !  And  we  had  given  only  nine 
pounds  all  those  years  ago.  Why  had  we  not 
made  pony-breeding  a  hobby?  The  War,  Mr. 
Edmead  went  on  to  explain,  had  rendered  ponies 
more  valuable.  Yes,  taking  everything  into 
consideration,  twenty-five  pounds  was  a  fair 
[98] 


A  Little  Child 

price.  We  ought  to  get  that.  In  fact,  if  he  had 
been  in  need  of  a  jjony  he  would  have  given 
that  himself;  but  just  then  he  was  well  sup- 
plied, and  Polly  was,  he  feared,  not  quite  fast 
enough  for  him.     Good  morning. 

Men  who  want  to  buy  a  pony  have  a  strong 
resemblance  to  each  other.  They  are  clean- 
shaven and  wear  hard  round  hats,  and  the 
collars  of  their  overcoats  are  carelessly  treated 
so  that  they  are  half  up  and  half  down.  They 
carry  sticks.  Also,  although  they  want  a  pony, 
they  don't  want  one  at  quite  such  a  figure.  All 
the  men  who  came  to  see  Polly  were  furthermore 
alike  in  agreeing  that  she  was  no  doubt  a  useful 
strong  pony,  even  a  strong  useful  pony,  but  she 
was  not  for  them.  Day  after  day  Polly  was  ex- 
amined. They  opened  her  mouth  and  shook 
their  heads,  they  felt  her  knees  and  her  hocks, 
they  looked  at  her  with  narrow  eyes  from  near 
by  and  from  far,  they  rattled  their  sticks  in 
their  hard  hats,  they  gave  her  sudden  cuts  and 
prods.     But  they  didn't  buy. 

We  began  to  get  desperate.  Much  as  we 
esteemed  Polly,  now  that  she  was  to  be  sold  we 
wanted  to  be  rid  of  her.  Things  should  be 
done  quickly.  And  then  came  a  market  gar- 
dener, a  large,  rubicund,  genial  man  named  Fox. 
And  Polly  was  again  led  forth  and  again  sub- 
jected to  every  test  known  to  pony-buyers.     All 

'[99] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

was  going  well,  and  would  have  gone  well,  but 
for   Vivian. 

Wlio^  you  ask,  is  Vivian?  We  should  be 
better  prepared  for  the  irruption  of  new  char- 
acters. True,  but  this  is  not  my  story,  but  my 
nice  neighbour's. 

Vivian  is  a  small  boy  who  had  known  Polly 
all  his  life,  and  who  by  some  mischance  wan- 
dered out  from  his  lessons  in  the  morning-room 
at  the  precise  moment  when  Mr.  Fox,  who  ob- 
viously was  attracted  by  Polly,  was  making  up 
his  mind  to  pay  the  full  money.  Vivian,  I 
should  explain,  is  one  of  those  ingratiating  little 
boys  who  look  upon  the  world  as  a  sphere  ex- 
isting solely  to  provide  them  with  friends,  and 
who  attach  themselves  with  the  strongest  bands 
to  open-air  manual  labourers.  No  sooner  did 
Vivian  see  Mr.  Fox's  benevolent  features  than 
he  added  him  to  his  collection. 

"Run  away,  Vivian,"  I  said.  "It's  not  play- 
time yet,  and  we're  busy." 

"Are  you  going  to  buy  Polly?"  Vivian  asked 
Mr.  Fox  by  way  of  a  suitable  rejoinder  to  my 
command. 

"I  was  thinking  about  it,"  said  Mr.  Fox,  add- 
ing to  me,  "How  old  do  you  call  her,  ma'am  ? 
She  looks  to  me  about  twelve." 

The  figure  was  so  low  that  I  nodded  assent, 
but  Vivian  spoilt  it  by  exclaiming,  "Oh,  mother, 
[100] 


A  Little  Child 

and  Mr.  Brooks  says  she's  seventeen  if  she's  a 
d,\y,  and  I'm  sure  she's  a  day." 

Mr.  Fox  became  thoughtful.  "Mr.  Brooks 
said  that,  did  he?"  he  remarked. 

I  felt  that  I  couldn't  tell  Vivian  again  to  go 
in,  because  it  would  look  as  though  I  feared 
his  frankness ;  which,  to  be  candid,  I  did.  All 
I  could  do  was  to  hope  for  the  best. 

"She's  quiet  enough ;  used  to  traffic  and  all 
that.^"     Mr.  Fox  asked. 

Then  Vivian  began  to  laugh.  This  trick  of 
laughter  over  retrospection — chewing  the  cud 
of  old  jokes — we  have  always  rather  admired  in 
him;  his  chuckles  are  very  engaging;  but  now 
I  trembled,  and  not  without  reason. 

"Don't  you  remember,  mother,"  he  began, 
"that  day  when  she  was  frightened  by  the  trac- 
tion engine  and  ran  into  the  grocer's  shop?" 

Mr.  Fox,  in  whose  large  hand  my  son's  minute 
one  was  now  reposing,  looked  grave. 

"That's  against  her  in  my  business,"  he  said. 

"Oh,  but,"  I  explained,  "that  was  a  very  long 
time  ago.  She's  quite  steady  now.  Don't  you 
remember,  Vivian,  it  was  on  your  fifth  birth- 
day?" 

"No,"  said  Vivian,  "that  was  on  my  seventh 
birthday — something  funny  always  happens  on 
my  birthdays,"  he  explained  to  Mr.  Fox — "it 
was  on  my  fifth  birthday  that  Polly  fell  down." 

[1011 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

"She's  been  down^  has  she?"  said  Mr.  Fox 
ominously. 

The  rest  of  it  is  too  tragic.  I  had  no  inten- 
tion of  concealing  anything;  Mr.  Edmcad  knew 
the  pony's  whole  history  when  he  valued  her; 
but  Vivian's  presence  made  me  nervous,  pain- 
fully self-conscious;  I  felt  my  face  burning 
and  knew  tliat  I  must  suggest  duplicity. 

Mr.  Fox,  I  will  admit,  played  the  game.  He 
asked  Vivian  no  questions ;  indeed  he  talked  of 
other  things  than  defective  ponies ;  but  I  could 
see  his  mind  working;  I  could  see  pound  after 
pound  drojjping  away  from  the  grand  total. 

Well,  that's  the  story.  Mr.  Fox  led  Polly 
away  some  ten  minutes  later,  leaving  in  her 
stead  a  cheque.  But  it  was  not  for  twenty-five 
pounds — Vivian  saw  to  that. 

The  moral.'*  The  moral  is:  when  your  hus- 
band is  in  Mesopotamia  and  the  time  comes  to 
sell  the  pony,  lock  your  cherubic  son  in  the 
nursery. 


fl02] 


A  DEVONSHIRE  INN 

TO  enter  a  strange  town  on  foot  and  unen- 
cumbered— leaving  one's  bag  at  the  station 
or  sending  it  on  in  advance — is  a  prudent  course, 
for  it  liberates  the  traveller  to  select  his  inn 
at  his  ease.  A  man  carrying  luggage  is  not 
free;  tlie  bag  in  a  way  pledges  him,  at  any  rate 
proclaims  the  fact  that  he  is  a  traveller  and 
will  probably  need  a  bed,  and  makes  it  the  more 
difficult  for  him  to  extricate  himself  from  the 
hostel  that  within  doors  has  failed  to  come  up  io 
the  promise  of  the  exterior — as  too  often  is  the 
hostel's  habit. 

All  unburdened,  then,  I  entered  Kingsbridge 
at  lunch-time  at  the  top  of  its  steep  main  street, 
and  as  I  walked  down  it  I  cast  my  glances  this' 
side  and  that  to  see  which  inn  seemed  most  prom- 
ising. The  woman  who,  at  Yealmpton,  had  given 
me  some  bread  and  cheese,  had  named  the 
"Anchor"  as  the  best.  A  man  who  had  beatea 
me  at  billiards  at  Devonport  had  mentioned 
another;  and,  left  to  myself,  I  found  myself 
more  taken  by  the  faqade  of  a  third. 

I  did,  however,  nothing  rash;  I  looked  care- 

[103] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

fully  at  all,  and  then  I  entered  the  one  with  the 
agreeable  facade  and  asked  for  lunch. 

Never  have  I  done  a  wiser  thing. 

It  is  odd  how  trifling  are  the  determining 
factors  in  some  of  the  most  momentous  decisions 
that  face  us  in  life.  Here  was  I  alone,  and  tired, 
and  in  a  strange  part  of  the  country,  with  the 
necessity  before  me  of  finding  "a  home  from 
home"  for  three  or  four  days,  and  yet,  even 
without  entering  any  of  the  other  inns,  I  agreed 
to  stay  in  this  one.  And  why?  Well,  a  little 
because  the  landlord  (a  big,  strong,  leisurely 
man  with  a  white  beard  and  a  massive  head), 
who  himself  did  the  waiting,  was  pleasant  and 
attentive,  and  a  little  because  his  daughter,  who 
had  charge  of  the  bar,  was  attentive  and  pleas- 
ant. But  the  real  reason  was  pickled  onions. 
Such  was  the  excellence  of  these  divine  roots 
that  I  let  everything  else  go.  Nights  might 
be  bad,  but  lunches  and  dinners  would  be  good: 
for  were  there  not  these  onions,  pickled  accord- 
ing to  a  recipe  of  the  host's  mother,  now  with 
God,  in  her  day  famous  for  the  best  ways  of  pre- 
serving and  curing  and,  indeed,  of  doing  every- 
thing" that  a  good  housewife  should?  The  enthu- 
siasm displayed  by  this  patriarchal  Boniface  for 
his  mother  was  perfectly  charming,  its  novelty 
being  part  of  its  charm.  Very  big  landlords 
with  white  beards  and  footfalls  that  shake  the 
[104] 


A  Devonshire  Inn 

house  do  not,  as  a  rule,  talk  about  their  mothers 
at  all.  Should  they,  through  strange  martial 
vicissitudes,  come,  as  this  one  had  done,  to  wait 
at  table,  they  wait  and  go.  But  this  one  hov- 
ered, and  talked  reverently  of  his  mother's 
household  genius,  giving  me  the  while  such  de- 
licious proofs  of  it  that  I  could  not  have  torn 
myself  away. 

To  those  exquisite  esculents  I  shall  be  eter- 
nally grateful,  for  they  brought  me  into  know- 
ledge of  one  of  the  most  interesting  of  inns.  It 
is  a  survival;  indeed,  to  my  great  satisfaction, 
the  word  "posting"  occurred  in  my  bill,  for  a 
journey  by  wagonette  to  a  distant  village  was 
thus  ennobled.  The  stables  are  immense,  and 
contained  one  horse.  The  coach-house  is  im- 
mense, and  contained  seventeen  carriages  of  va- 
rious kinds,  from  omnibus  to  dogcart,  but  chiefly 
broughams,  all  in  a  state  of  mouldiness.  Coming 
by  degrees  to  be  recognised  as  a  member  of  the 
little  family  which,  by  ceaseless  activity,  ran 
this  unwieldy  place — father,  daughter,  a  superb 
cook,  a  maid-servant,  and  an  ostler — I  was  free 
to  wander  as  I  would,  and  exploring  the  various 
floors  and  passages  I  came  upon  a  billiard  table 
whose  cushions  belonged  to  the  Stone  Age,  and 
an  assembly-room  with  a  musicians'  gallery.  In 
the  kitchen  I  watched  at  her  mysteries  the  ad- 
mirable  lady   who   cooked    and   carried   on   the 

[105] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

noble  traditions  of  the  landlord's  mother  as  set 
forth  in  a  manuscript  book  in  her  own  hand.  In 
the  bar  parlour  I  watched  the  landlord,  accord- 
ing to  the  new  regulations,  water  down  his 
spirits,  and  heard  instalments  of  his  long  life, 
spent  wholly,  in  this  "house"  and  that,  in  min- 
istering to  the  wants  of  his  fellow-creatures — 
tired,  or  hungry,  or  thirsty,  but  chiefly  thirsty. 
Then  later  in  the  evening  the  little  cosy  room 
would  fill,  and  I  would  quietly  take  my  place  as 
one  of  the  best  listeners  that  its  habitues  had 
ever  talked  to.  Listening  is  an  old  accomplish- 
ment of  mine,  and  here,  amid  the  friendliest  of 
strangers,  I  gave  it  full  play ;  and  you  would  be 
surprised  to  know  how  much  I  know  of  Kings- 
bridge  life.  Probably  their  surprise  would  be 
even  greater. 

And  still  I  have  not  really  begun  to  describe 
this  most  alluring  inn.  In  the  cellar,  for  ex- 
ample, there  was  some  '47  port.  .  .  . 


[106] 


ON  SHOPS  AND  STALLS 

MOST  people  who  do  not  keep  shops  have, 
I  suppose,  at  one  time  or  other  thought 
that  to  keep  a  shop  might  be  fun;  of  course, 
keeping  it  their  own  way,  selling  only  what  they 
liked,  to  whom  they  liked.  No  vulgar  trade 
notions  at  all !  The  fact  that  there  is  no  nursery 
game  so  popular  as  keeping  shop  probably 
proves  this.  And  none  is  more  popular,  except, 
perhaps,  among  French  country  children,  who 
prefer  the  game  of  market — each  one  presiding 
over  a  different  stall,  stocked  with  the  most  in- 
genious miniature  counterfeits  of  vegetables  and 
fruit  fashioned  chiefly  from  wild  flowers  and 
leaves,  and  all  shouting  against  each  other  with 
terrific  French  volubility  and  not  a  little  French 
wit. 

We  seldom  go  so  far  as  actually  to  open  an 
establishment,  but  we  play  with  the  idea.  One 
of  my  friends  has  for  years  projected  a  London 
centre  for  all  the  most  interesting  and  vivid 
European  pottery,  and  if  only  she  could  as- 
semble it  and  maintain  the  supply,  I  have  little 
doubt  of  her  success.     But  the  chances  are  that 

[107] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

it  will  never  materialize,  the  people  who  do 
things  being  so  rare.  Another  is  at  this  moment 
excitedly  planning  a  restaurant  in  a  neighbour- 
hood where  one  seems  peculiarly  to  be  needed, 
as  it  is  chiefly  populated  by  dwellers  in  flats, 
the  slogan  of  which  is  to  be  "Where  to  dine  when 
cook  goes  out";  but  that,  too,  will  probably  end 
in  talk. 

One  would  say,  on  the  face  of  it,  that  a  shop 
opened  in  a  locality  where  that  kind  of  shop  did 
not  previously  exist  would  have  a  better  chance 
than  a  shop  opened  next  door  to  another  shop 
of  the  same  kind — apart  from  any  unpleasant- 
ness that  such  contiguity  might  produce.  But 
the  methods  of  business  are  inscrutable,  and 
there  seem  to  be  countless  ways,  often  in  direct 
opposition  to  each  other,  of  conducting  it  suc- 
cessfully. One  would,  at  the  first  blush,  have 
called  this  principle  of  scientific  selection  and 
segregation  the  soundest;  and  yet  that  of  con- 
gregation seems  to  be  just  as  sensible;  so  that 
while  one  man  succeeds  because  he  is  the  only 
tailor  in  the  street,  another  man  can  be  even 
more  successful  because  he  is  in  a  street  where 
every  other  establishment  is  a  tailor's  too.  There 
are  also  the  antagonistic  principles  of  ostentation 
and  self-effacement,  each  again  apparently  sat- 
isfactory: so  that  one  hatter,  for  example,  suc- 
ceeds because  he  inhabits  a  palace  of  light,  and 
[108] 


On  Shops  and  Stalls 

another  because  you  can  hardly  see  through 
the  grimy  panes  of  his  old-fashioned  and  obso- 
lete windows.  There  are,  furthermore,  the  an- 
tipodal theories  of  singularity  and  plurality:  so 
that  one  draper  makes  as  good  a  thing  as  he 
■wants  out  of  a  single  shop,  and  another  rises  to 
wealth  by  dint  of  opening  twenty  shops  at 
once. 

And  then  there  are  the  business  people  who 
thrive  by  apparently  doing  no  business.  We  all 
know  of  shops  which  no  one  was  ever  seen  to 
enter;  while  at  the  opposite  pole  are  the  man- 
darins of  trade  who  disdain  to  disclose  their 
identity  to  strangers — such  as  Altman  and 
Tiffany,  serenely  secure  in  their  anonymous 
stores. 

But  to  select  one's  line  .  .  .? 

There  was  once  a  man  who,  without  any 
special  training,  decided  that  he  would  start 
business  in  London ;  and  he  came  to  town  to 
prospect  and  make  up  his  mind,  which  was  curi- 
ously blank  and  receptive.  In  his  walking  about 
he  was  struck  by  the  number  of  old  curiosity 
shops  in  the  neighbourhood  of  the  British  Mu- 
seum and  South  Kensington  Museum,  which  led 
to  the  inference,  hitherto  unsuspected  by  him, 
but  known  to  the  dealers,  that  there  is  some- 
thing exciting  in  the  air  of  those  places,  so  that 
the  visitor,  having  seen  many  odd  things,  wishes 

[109] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

to  acquire  some  for  himself.  All  his  plans  to 
establish  himself  in  London  failed,  however,  be- 
cause he  could  not  obtain  a  site  for  a  monu- 
mental mason's  yard  opposite  Westminster 
Abbey. 

My  own  ambition,  if  ever  I  took  to  keeping  a 
shop,  would  be  merely  to  be  in  a  congenial  line 
of  business.  Some  things  are  interesting  to  sell, 
and  some  most  emphatically  are  not.  Old  books 
would  appear  to  be  an  ideal  commodity ;  but  this 
is  far  from  the  case,  because  I  should  want  not 
to  sell  them  but  to  keep  them.  Pictures,  too — 
how  could  one  part  with  a  good  one.''  And, 
equally,  how  permit  a  customer  to  be  so  mis- 
guided as  to  pay  money  for  a  bad  one  ?  A  fruit- 
shop  would  be  a  not  unpleasant  place  to  move 
about  in,  were  it  not  that  it  is  one  of  my  pro- 
foundest  beliefs  that  fruit  ought  not  to  be  sold 
at  all,  but  given  away.  The  tobacconist's  was 
once  an  urbane  and  agreeable  career;  but  it  is 
so  no  longer.  To-day  the  tobacconist  is  a  mere 
cog  in  a  vast  piece  of  machinery  called  a  Trust ; 
and  the  tobacco-shop  is  as  remote  from  the  old 
divan,  where  connoisseurs  of  the  leaf  met  and 
tested  and  talked,  as  tlie  modern  chemist's,  with 
its  photograph  frames  and  "seasonable  gifts," 
is  remote  from  the  home  of  Rosamimd's  purple 
jar. 

That  ingenious  and  adventurous  tobacconist, 

[no] 


On  Shops  and  Stalls 

Mr.  Godall,  revisiting  the  London  which  he 
found,  or  made,  so  like  Baghdad,  would  have  to 
discover  a  new  kind  of  headquarters.  Perhaps 
he  would  open  an  oyster-bar  (it  was  in  an  oyster- 
bar  near  Leicester  Square  that  the  young  man 
proffered  the  cream  tarts) ;  more  likely  an 
American  bar.  But  if  he  really  wanted  to 
observe  human  nature  at  its  most  vulnerable 
and  impulsive — that  is,  at  night — he  would  take 
a  coffee-stall.  After  ten  o'clock,  the  coffee-stall 
men  are  the  truest  friends  that  poor  humanity 
has.  There  is  a  coffee-stall  within  a  few  yards 
of  my  abode;  and  no  matter  at  what  hour  I  re- 
turn, the  keeper  of  it  is  always  brisk  and  jovial, 
with  the  hottest  beverages  that  ever  were  set  to 
timid  lips.  His  stall  is  surrounded  by  hungry 
and  thirsty  revellers,  chiefly  soldiers,  not  infre- 
quently accompanied  by  the  fair.  Every  one 
calls  him  by  his  Christian  name,  and  every  one 
talks  and  is  jolly.  And  no  matter  at  what  hour 
in  the  night  I  wake,  or  from  what  disconcert- 
ing dream,  I  am  always  at  once  secure  in  my 
mind  that  the  old  recognisable  world  is  still 
about  me  and  I  have  not  passed  over  in  my 
sleep,  because  the  voices  and  laughter  about  the 
coffee-stall  fill  the  air.  "Good,"  I  say,  "I  am 
still  here."  Now  it  would  be  a  pleasant  thing, 
and  prove  one's  life  not  to  have  been  lived  in 

[111] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

vain,  to  be  able  to  minister  in  the  small  hours 
gaily  to  so  many  heroes,  and  incidentally  to  im- 
part to  wakeful  and  disquieted  neighbours  reas- 
surance of  stability. 


[112] 


THIRD  THOUGHTS 

IT  is  my  destiny  (said  my  friend)  to  buy  in 
the  dearest  markets  and  to  sell — if  I  succeed 
in  selling  at  all — in  the  cheapest.  Usually,  in- 
deed, having  tired  of  a  picture  or  decorative  ar- 
ticle, I  have  positively  to  give  it  away ;  almost  to 
make  its  acceptance  by  another  a  personal  fa- 
vour to  me.  But  the  other  day  was  marked  by 
an  exception  to  this  rule  so  striking  that  I  have 
been  wondering  if  perhaps  the  luck  has  not 
changed  and  I  am,  after  all,  destined  to  be  that 
most  enviable  thing,  a  successful  dealer. 

It  happened  thus.  In  drifting  about  the  old 
curiosity  shops  of  a  cathedral  city  I  came  upon 
a  portfolio  of  water-colour  drawings,  among 
which  was  one  that  to  my  eye  would  have  been  a 
possible  Turner,  even  if  an  earlier  owner  had  not 
shared  that  opinion  or  hope  and  set  the  magic 
name  with  all  its  initials  (so  often  placed  in  the 
wrong  order)  beneath  it. 

"How  much  is  this?"  I  asked  scornfully. 

"Well,"  said  the  dealer,  "if  it  were  a  genuine 
Turner  it  would  be  worth  anything.  But  let's 
say  ten  shillings.    You  can  have  it  for  that;  but 

[113] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

I  don't  mind  if  you  don't,  because  I'm  going  to 
London  next  week  and  should  take  it  with  me  to 
get  an  opinion." 

I  pondered. 

"Mind  you,  I  don't  guarantee  it,"  he  added. 

I  gave  him  the  ten  shillings. 

By  what  incredible  means  I  found  a  pur- 
chaser for  the  drawing  at  fifty  pounds  there  is 
no  need  to  tell,  for  the  point  of  this  narrative 
resides  not  in  bargaining  with  collectors,  but  in 
bargaining  with  my  own  soul.  The  astonishing 
fact  remains  that  I  achieved  a  profit  of  forty- 
nine  pounds  ten  and  was  duly  elated.  I  then 
began  to  think. 

The  dealer  (so  my  thoughts  ran)  in  that  little 
street  hy  the  cathedral  west  door,  he  ought  to 
participate  in  this.  He  behaved  very  well  to 
me  and  I  ought  to  behave  well  to  him.  It  would 
be  only  fair  to  give  him  half. 

Thereupon  I  sat  down  and  wrote  a  little  note 
saying  that  the  potential  Turner  drawing, 
which  no  doubt  he  recollected,  had  turned  out  to 
be  authentic,  and  I  had  great  pleasure  in  en- 
closing him  half  of  the  proceeds,  as  I  considered 
that  to  be  the  only  just  and  decent  course. 

Having  no  stamps  and  the  hour  being  late  I 
did  not  post  this,  and  went  to  bed. 

At  about  3.30  a.  m.  I  woke  widely  up  and, 
according  to  custom,  began  to  review  my  life's 
[114] 


Third  Thoughts 

errorSj  which  are  in  no  danger  of  ever  suffering 
from  loneliness.  From  these  I  reached,  by  way 
of  mitigation,  my  recent  successful  piece  of  chaf- 
fering, and  put  the  letter  to  the  dealer  under 
both  examination  and  cross-examination.  Why 
(so  my  thoughts  ran)  give  him  half  .^  Why  be 
quixotic.^  This  is  no  world  for  quixotry.  It 
was  my  eye  that  detected  the  probability  of  the 
drawing,  not  his.  He  had  indeed  failed ;  did  not 
know  his  own  business.  Wliy  put  a  premium  on 
ineptitude.''  No,  a  present  of,  say,  ten  pounds 
at  the  most  would  more  than  adequately  meet 
the  case. 

Sleep  still  refusing  to  oblige  me,  I  took  a 
book  of  short  stories  and  read  one.  Then  I 
closed  my  eyes  again,  and  again  began  to  think 
about  the  dealer.  Why  (so  my  thoughts  ran) 
send  him  ten  pounds?  It  will  only  give  him  a 
wrong  idea  of  his  customers,  none  other  of  whom 
would  be  so  fair,  so  sporting,  as  I.  He  will  ex- 
pect similar  letters  every  day  and  be  disap- 
pointed, and  then  he  will  become  embittered  and 
go  down  the  vale  of  tears  a  miserable  creature. 
He  looked  a  nice  old  man  too;  a  pity,  nay  a 
crime,  to  injure  such  a  nature.  No,  ten  pounds 
is  absurd.  Five  would  be  plenty.  Ten  would 
put  him  above  himself. 

While  I  was  dressing  the  next  morning  I 
thought  about  the  dealer  again.    Why  should  I 

[115] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

(so  my  thoughts  ran),  directly  I  had  for  the  first 
time  in  my  life  brought  off  a  financial  coup,  spoil 
it  by  giving  a  large  part  of  the  profit  away? 
Was  not  that  flying  in  the  face  of  the  Goddess 
of  Business,  whoever  she  may  be?  Was  it  not 
asking  her  to  disregard  me — only  a  day  or  so 
after  we  had  at  last  got  on  terms?  There  is  no 
fur}^  like  a  woman  scorned ;  it  would  probably 
be  the  end  of  me.  The  Rockefellers  and  the 
Vanderbilts  have  won  to  success  and  affluence 
probably  just  because  they  don't  do  these  foolish 
impulsive  things.  If  I  am  to  make  any  kind  of 
figure  in  this  new  role  of  fine-art  speculator  (so 
my  thoughts  continued)  I  must  control  my  feel- 
ings. Xo,  five  pounds  is  absurd.  A  douceur  of 
one  pound  wnll  meet  the  case.  It  will  be  nothing 
to  me — or,  at  any  rate,  nothing  serious — but  a 
gift  of  quail  and  manna  from  a  clear  sky  to  the 
dealer,  without,  however,  doing  him  any  harm. 
A  pound  will  be  ample,  accompanied  by  a  brief 
note. 

The  note  was  to  the  effect  that  I  had  sold  the 
drawing  at  a  profit  which  enabled  me  to  make 
him  a  present,  because  it  was  an  old,  and  per- 
haps odd,  belief  of  mine  that  one  should  do  this 
kind  of  thing;  good  luck  should  be  shared. 

I  had  the  envelope  in  my  pocket  containing 
the  note  and  the  cheque  when  I  reached  the  club 
for  lunch;  and  that  afternoon  I  plaved  bridge 
[116] 


Third  Thoughts 

so  disastrously  that  I  was  glad  I  had  not  posted 
it. 

After  all  (so  my  thoughts  ran,  as  I  destroyed 
the  envelope  and  contents)  such  bargains  are  all 
part  of  the  game.  Buying  and  selling  are  a 
perfectly  straightforward  matter  between  dealer 
and  customer.  The  dealer  asks  as  much  as  he 
thinks  he  can  extort,  and  the  customer,  having 
paid  it,  is  under  no  obligation  whatever  to  the 
dealer.    The  incident  is  closed. 


[117] 


THE  ITALIAN  QUESTION 

THERE  are,  no  doubt,  matters  of  impor- 
tance which  must  always  agitate  the  minds 
of  Italian  senators  and  the  souls  of  Italian  re- 
formers; the  country  of  Dante,  Garibaldi,  and 
D'Annunzio  cannot  for  long  be  without  deep 
and  vital  problems,  political  and  social:  but 
for  me,  in  that  otherwise  delectable  land,  the 
dominant  question  is,  What  becomes  of  the 
mosquito  while  you  are  hunting  for  him?  (I  say 
"him,"  although,  of  course,  there  are  supporters 
of  the  theory  that  mosquitoes  are  feminine.  But 
I  know  he  is  a  he,  and  I  know  his  name,  too: 
it  is,  for  too  obvious  reasons,  Macbeth.) 

This  is  my  procedure.  I  undress,  then  I  put 
on  a  dressing-gown  and  slippers,  and,  lifting  the 
mosquito  curtains,  I  place  the  candle  inside  them 
on  the  bed.  Then,  with  the  closest  scrutiny,  I 
satisfy  myself  that  there  is  no  mosquito  inside, 
as  indeed  Eleanora,  the  handmaid,  had  done 
some  hours  earlier,  when  she  made  the  bed. 
"Nienie,  n'lente,"  she  had  assured  me,  as  she 
always  does.  None  the  less,  again  I  go  carefully 
round  it,  examining  the  net  for  any  faulty  hang- 
[118] 


The  Italian  Question 

ing  which  might  let  in  an  insect  ascending  with 
malice  from  the  floor. 

This  being  done,  I  creep  through,  blow  out  the 
candle,  and  go  to  sleep. 

I  have  slept  perhaps  an  hour  when  a  shrill 
bugle  call,  which  I  conceive  in  my  dreams  to  be 
the  Last  Trump,  awakens  me,  and  as  I  wake  I 
realise  once  again  the  melancholy  fact  that  it  is 
no  Last  Trump  at  all,  but  that  there  is,  as  there 
always  is,  a  mosquito  inside  the  curtain. 

Already  he  has  probably  bitten  me  in  several 
places;  at  any  cost  he  must  be  prevented  from 
biting  me  again.  I  sit  up  and  feel  my  face  all 
over  to  discover  if  my  beauty  has  been  assailed; 
for  that  is  the  thing  I  most  dread.  (Without 
beauty  what  are  we?)  I  lie  quite  still  while  I 
do  this,  straining  to  catch  his  horrid  song  again ; 
and  suddenly  there  it  is,  so  near  that  I  duck  my 
head  swiftly,  nearly  ricking  my  neck  in  doing  so. 

This  confirming  my  worst  fears,  there  is  noth- 
ing for  it  now  but  to  lift  the  curtains,  slip  out  on 
to  the  cold  stone  floor,  light  the  candle,  and  once 
again  go  through  the  futile  but  necessary  move- 
ment of  locating  and  expelling  a  mosquito. 

That  there  will  be  none  to  expel,  I  know. 

None  the  less  I  crawl  about  and  peer  into 
every  comer.  I  shake  the  clothes,  I  do  every- 
thing that  can  be  done  short  of  stripping  the 
curtains,  which  I  am  too  sleepy  to  do.    And  then 

[119] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

I  blow  out  the  candle  for  the  second  time  and 
endeavour  to  fall  asleep  again. 

But  this  time  it  is  more  difficult:  Macbeth  has 
performed  his  pet  trick  too  thoroughly.  At  last, 
however^  I  drowse  away,  again  to  be  galvanised 
suddenly  into  intense  and  dreadful  vigilance  by 
the  bugle  shrilling  an  inch  from  my  ear. 

And  so  once  again  I  get  up  and  once  again 
the  pest  vanishes  into  notliing.   .    .    . 

The  next  time  I  don't  care  a  soldo  if  he  is 
there  or  not,  I  am  so  tired;  and  the  rest  of  the 
night  is  passed  in  a  half-sleep,  in  which  real 
mosquitoes  and  imaginary  mosquitoes  equally  do 
their  worst,  and  I  turn  no  hair.  And  then,  some 
years  later,  the  blessed  dawn  breaks  and  spreads 
and  another  Italian  night  of  misery  passes  into 
glorious  day;  and,  gradually  recognising  this 
bliss,  I  sit  up  in  bed  and  begin  to  tear  away  at 
the  fresh  poison  in  my  poor  hands  and  wrists, 
which  were  like  enough  to  a  map  of  a  volcanic 
island  in  the  Pacific  yesterday,  but  now  are 
poignantly  more  so. 

And  suddenly,  as  I  thus  scratch,  I  am  con- 
scious of  a  motionless  black  speck  on  the  cur- 
tain above  me.  .  .  . 

It  is — yes — no — yes — it  is  Macbeth. 

I  agitate  the  gauze,  but  he  takes  no  notice; 
I  approach  ray  hand,  a  movement  which  in  his 
saner  moments  he  would  fly  from  with  the 
[120] 


The  Italian  Question 

agility  of  electricity;  he  remains  still.  He  is 
either  dead  or  dazed. 

I  examine  him  minutely  and  observe  him  to  be 
alive,  and  the  repugnant  truth  is  forced  upon  me 
that  he  is  not  merely  drunk  but  drunk  with  my 
blood.  That  purple  tide  must  be  intoxicating; 
and  his  intemperance  has  been  his  ruin. 

There  is  only  one  thing  to  be  done.  I  have 
no  paltry  feelings  of  revenge;  but  his  death  is 
indicated.  The  future  must  be  considered.  And 
so  I  kill  him.  It  is  done  with  the  greatest  ease. 
He  makes  no  resistance  at  all:  merely,  dying, 
saluting  me  with  my  own  blood.  It  is  odd  to 
have  it  thus  returned. 

A  good  colour,  I  think,  and  get  up,  conscious 
of  no  triumph. 

Then,  going  to  the  glass,  I  discern  a  red  lump 
on  my  best  feature.  .  ,  . 


[121] 


ON  DISGUISE 

Ir  was  pointed  out  that  one  of  the  most  strik- 
ing novelties  of  the  Peace  Day  revels  in 
London  was  the  number  of  girls  dressed  as  men, 
chiefly  as  soldiers  and  sailors.  Men  who  were 
dressed  as  women — at  least  recognisably  so — 
I  did  not  observe,  but  then  in  a  crowd  at  night 
they  might  be  more  difficult  to  detect,  whereas 
no  woman  can  be  a  really  plausible  man.  The 
idea  dominating  these  girls  was  less  to  deceive 
than  to  be  hilarious,  and  most  of  them,  I  am 
sure,  before  the  evening  was  over,  achieved 
genuine  male  company. 

For  a  man  to  pretend  to  be  a  woman  is  a  less 
savoury  proposition ;  but  it  can  be  done  without 
offence  (as  in  "Charley's  Aunt"),  and  I  heard 
the  other  day  a  pleasant  story  of  such  a  dis- 
guise, the  hero  of  which  is  a  comedian  of  great 
acceptance  by  the  youthful  every  Christmas. 
This  popular  performer  laid  a  wager  with  the 
maitre  d'hotel  of  a  famous  London  restaurant 
that  some  time  or  other  within  the  coming  year 
he  would  enter  the  restaurant  dressed  as  an  old 
woman,  and  be  served  with  lunch  as  though  he 
[122] 


On  Disguise 

were  an  ordinary  customer.  The  maitre  d'hotel, 
who  had  been  maintaining  that  men  dressed  as 
women  were,  at  any  rate  in  broad  daylight,  al- 
ways to  be  detected,  accepted,  and  a  sum  was 
fixed  sufficient  to  make  the  enterprise  worth 
while,  the  conditions  being  that  if  the  disguise 
were  penetrated  the  maitre  d'hotel  should  in- 
dicate the  discovery  by  a  somewhat  idiomatic 
form  of  words,  more  suitable  to  be  applied  to  a 
sham  lady  than  a  real  one ;  and  if  the  actor  suc- 
ceeded he  should  send  for  the  manager  and 
thank  him  for  his  lunch.  Each  winner  would 
add  a  request  for  the  amount  of  the  bet. 

A  few  weeks  ago  the  comedian  won.  But  the 
cream  of  the  story  is  that  during  the  year  no 
fewer  than  three  unoffending  and  genuine  old 
ladies,  as  female  as  God  created  them,  were,  on 
different  occasions,  more  than  astonished  to  be 
accosted  by  the  maitre  d'hotel  in  the  midst  of 
their  meals  with  a  triumphant  and  not  too  refined 
catch-phrase,  and  to  be  asked  for  a  tenner. 

People  look  now  so  little  at  the  clothes  of 
others  that  disguise  must  have  become  easier 
than  it  was.  The  War  brought  so  many  strange 
costumes  into  being  that  we  stare  hardly  at  all, 
and  at  uniforms  never.  A  man  wearing  a  kilt, 
leggings,  and  spurs  might,  before  the  War,  have 
attracted  attention;  we  now  merely  mutter,  "An- 
other of  those  Mounted  Highlanders,"  and  pass 

[123] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

on.  In  fact,  Ave  look  more  at  members  of 
the  no-hat  brigade  than  at  anyone  else,  and 
at  them  only  to  see  if  they  are  authentic  bare- 
heads  or  chance  to  have  their  hats  in  their 
hands. 

Although  the  principal  reasons  for  disguise 
are  to  assist  in  evading  justice  (the  criminal) 
and  to  assist  in  pursuing  crime  (the  detec- 
tive), there  are,  I  hope,  a  few  whimsical  hu- 
mourists left  who  take  to  it  for  its  own  sake 
or  to  make  things  more  possible.  A  dull  July 
day  with  a  north  wind,  such  as  in  1919 
was  the  price  of  a  divine  May  and  June, 
might  be  made  quite  tolerable  if  we  mas- 
queraded through  it  and  pulled  the  legs  of  our 
friends,  like  Sir  Walter  Scott's  friend,  the  lady 
of  the  "Mystifications."  I  am  sure  that  it  would 
enable  us  to  have  better  holidays.  But  we 
should  have  to  be  thorough :  it  is  no  use  dressing 
up  as  a  policeman  and  walking  fast,  or  assuming 
the  mien  of  a  Jewish  financier  and  taking  long 
steps,  or  borrowing  a  scarecrow's  wardrobe  to 
beg  in  and  forgetting  to  supplant  our  natural 
assurance  with  a  cringe.  In  fact,  all  the  real 
work  is  to  come  after  the  clothes  are  on.  You 
may  sit  in  Clarkson's  for  a  couple  of  hours  hav- 
ing a  beard  attached  to  your  face  (as  I  once 
watched  a  friend  of  mine  doing),  but,  when  it  is 
finished,  you  must  look  and  behave  not  merely 
[124] 


On  Disguise 

like  a  man  with  a  beard,  as  he  did,  but  like  a 
bearded  man.  He  came  away  so  painfully  aware 
of  a  transfigured  chin  that  he  collected  every  eye 
and  the  police  began  to  follow  him  merely  on 
suspicion. 

Indeed,  to  carry  a  disguise  well  requires  un- 
remitting coHcentration.  The  walk  comes  first: 
one  would  have  continually  to  remember  it. 
Then  the  carriage  of  the  hands.  Dressed  as  a 
curate,  for  example,  you  would  give  it  all  away 
by  strolling  along  with  your  hands  in  your 
pockets;  just  as  if  you  affected  to  be  a  seller  of 
motor-cars  you  would  fail  if  you  had  them 
anywhere  else.  This  need  of  unrelaxing  thought 
is  the  reason  why  disguise  would  be  such  a 
iiseful  ally  of  the  holiday  maker.  The  com- 
pletest  escape  from  one's  ordinary  preocupa- 
tions  could  be  obtained  by  a  resolute  simulation 
of  this  kind.  It  is  not  enough  to  go  to  Brighton; 
that  is  only  half  a  holiday.  But  to  go  to 
Brighton  as  a  bishop,  say,  or  a  taxi-driver,  an 
American  soldier  or  an  Indian  law  student,  and 
keep  it  up — that  would  be  a  total  change,  a  va- 
cation indeed. 


[125] 


BROKEN  ENGLISH 

TWO  examples  of  broken  English  have  re- 
cently fallen  upon  my  grateful  ear — both 
from  the  lips  of  foreign  door-keepers  of  restau- 
rants. 

The  first  touched  upon  an  untimely,  although 
welcome,  heat-wave. 

"It  is,"  I  remarked  with  an  affability  equalled 
only  by  want  of  originality,  "almost  too 
warm." 

"Yes,"  the  porter  replied;  "ze  'ot,  'e  come  all 
in  one." 

On  the  second  occasion  I  was  waiting  for  a 
guest  who  was  late.  After  a  while  I  com- 
mented, pleasantly,  to  the  door-keeper  on  the 
tendency  of  the  fair  sex  to  be  behind  time. 

He  laughed  the  light,  easy  laugh  of  one  who 
has  deep  intimacy  with  the  world  we  live  in. 
"Ladies  always  late,"  he  said;  "always  make 
themselves  wish  and  desire  for." 

However   faulty   in   construction,  both   those 

phrases  are  epigrammatic.    I  should  not  go  so 

far  as  to  say  they  could  not  be  improved  upon, 

yet  it  would  be  difficult  to  make  them  more  vivid. 

[126] 


Broken  English 

To  endow  the  heat  with  gender  is  assuredly  to 
add  to  its  reality :  a  blast  from  Vulcan's  furnace, 
for  example;  while  the  remark  about  the  tarrying 
ladies  enshrines  a  great  verity  such  as  restaurant 
door-keepers  are  perhaps  better  fitted  to  under- 
stand than  most  of  us.  At  any  rate,  if  a  res- 
taurant door-keeper  does  not  learn  such  things, 
who  can?  Both  phrases  also  show  that  neither 
speaker,  after  I  know  not  how  many  years  in 
England,  is  yet  making  any  effort  to  talk  Eng- 
lish, but  is  content  to  clothe  his  own  native 
thoughts  in  the  most  adequate  English  apparel 
that  he  can  collect;  just  as  I,  for  one,  never 
have  done  in  France  other  than  translate  more 
or  less  faithfully  my  English  sentences  into 
French.  As  for  talking  French — never !  No 
such  good  fortune.  But  I  am  quite  sure  that, 
however  amusing  my  blunders  have  been,  no  one 
has  ever  thought  them  epigrammatic,  because 
the  English  syntax  does  not  automatically  tend 
to  witty  compression  as  the  French  does. 

That  illiteracy  can  get  there  as  quickly  and 
surely  as  the  highest  culture,  though  by  a  dif- 
ferent route,  is  proved  by  the  following  in- 
stance. 

Once  upon  a  time  there  was  a  Little  Tailor  in 
a  little  shop  in  Spho.  Not  a  tailor  in  the  or- 
dinary sense  of  the  word,  but  a  ladies'  tailor. 
He  was  never  seen  out  of  shirt  sleeves  which 

[127] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

might  have  been  whiter,  and  he  came  from  one 
of  the  foreign  lands  where  the  youths  seem  to  be 
under  conscription  for  this  trade.  What  land 
it  was  I  cannot  say  for  certain,  but  I  should 
guess   Poland. 

Once  upon  a  time — in  fact,  at  the  same  time — 
there  was  also  a  lady  connected  with  the  stage, 
and  as  her  theatre  was  contiguous  to  the  Little 
Tailor's  place  of  business,  it  was  only  natural 
that  when  one  of  her  gowns  was  suddenly  torn 
her  dresser  should  hasten  to  him  to  have  it  put 
right.  But  the  charge  was  so  disproportionate 
to  the  slight  work  done  that  the  dresser  deferred 
payment,  and  deferred  it  so  long  that  the  Little 
Tailor  had  to  lay  down  the  shears  and  take  the 
pen  in  their  place.    And  this  is  what  he  wrote: — 

Dear  Miss, — I  don't  feel  like  exactly  to  quarrel 
with  somebody.  But  it  is  the  first  time  in  my  life 
happens  to  me  a  thing  like  that.  And  therefore  I  am 
not  going  to  let  it  go.  I  was  just  keeping  quiet  to 
see  what  you  would  do.  But  what  I  can  see  you 
think  I  have  forgotten  about  it.  But  I  may  tell  you 
this  much.  It  is  not  the  few  shillings  but  it  is  the 
impudence  to  come  in  while  I  am  away  to  ask  the 
girl  to  do  it  as  a  special,  and  then  to  come  in  and 
take  it  away,  and  then  tell  the  girl  you  would  come 
in  to-morrow  to  see  me.  And  this  is  six  weeks 
already  and  you  have  not  come  yet.  The  only  thing 
I  can  say  now.  Miss,  if  you  will  kindly  send  the 
money  by  return,  because  I  tell  you  candidly.  I  will 
not  be  had  by  you  in  this  manner.  Should  you  not 
[128] 


Broken  English 

send  the  money  I  shall  try  to  get  to  know  you  per- 
sonally, and  will  have  something  to  say  about  it. 

— If  the  art  of  letter-writing  is  to  state  clearly 
one's  own  position,  that  is  as  good  a  letter  as 
any  written.  Every  word  expresses  not  only  the 
intention  of  the  writer  but  his  state  of  mind. 
No  one  could  improve  upon  it  except  in  essen- 
tials. 

And  here  is  a  letter  by  a  Pole  partially 
Americanised.  It  was  recently  addressed  to  a 
Chicago  firm: 

Dear  Gentlemen, — Seaing  Your  Advertisement  in 
the  Daily  News  that  you  wanted  a  Agent  in  Chicago 
I  am  a  Temperance  Polish  bachelor.  I  am  35  years 
of  age,  I  live  30  years  in  Chicago  have  a  clear  record. 
I  love  all  Nations,  I  am  inteligent  i  worked  in  Metal 
line  10  years.  I  am  a  fine  talker  I  lived  in  4  parts 
of  Chicago.  I  have  a  mild  disposition  I  have  100. 
cash.  I  am  a  Orphan.  I  work  for  a  Jewish  Real 
Estate  man  on  Commission  he  is  worth  50,000  dollars 
he  made  that  in  7  years,  i  want  a  small  salary  and 
Commission  to  act  as  General  Agent.  I  have  a  4 
room  flat  and  furnished  for  my  own  money  and  1 
have  a  roomer  he  has  5000  cash.  I  am  a  fine  Business 
talker  used  to  being  in  Cigar  and  Grocery  and  Candy 
Business  some  years  agow.  I  will  purchase  a  25000 
dollar  share  in  your  Business  Dear  Gentlemen  if  you 
find  me  a  wife  that  has  50000  dollars  cash  or  more, 
with  best  success  to  you  dear  gentlemen,  I  will  take 
a  Widow,  a  white  woman  i  love  children. 
Very  truly,  etc. 

[129] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

With  Baboo  broken  English  we  have  long 
been  familiar.  Whole  books  have  been  devoted 
to  its  exploitation ;  but  the  supply  is  continuous 
and  sometliing  new  is  ever  emerging  from  India. 
Here  is  a  recent  effort  by  a  Calcutta  student  in 
search  of  pleasure.  Writing  to  a  firm  of  job- 
masters in  that  city,  he  says: — 

Dear  Sir, — It  is  to  approach  you  for  a  kind  con- 
sideration. I  am  a  student.  I  want  a  carriage  cither 
a  tandaum  or  a  phaeton  for  evening  drive  now  and 
then  but  not  everyday.  It  is  to  know  from  you 
whether  j'ou  allow  your  carriages  to  be  engaged  for 
part  of  a  day  say  from  5  to  9  or  10  in  the  evening 
and  if  the  answer  be  in  the  affirmative  at  what  rate 
you  do  so.  If  you  have  no  such  rule  will  you  be  kind 
enough  to  consider  the  case  of  a  young  man  who 
wants  a  carriage  for  joy-driving.  It  rests  solely 
with  you  and  be  good  and  kind  enough  to  grant  him 
what  he  wants.  As  regards  charges  in  the  first  in- 
stance let  me  tell  you  and  which  you  perhaps  know 
thoroughly  well  that  the  student  is  generally  poor 
but  merry,  the  best  for  him  is  to  have  it  free  of  any 
charge  and  if  such  cannot  be  the  case,  be  kind  enough 
to  let  me  know  what  least  you  can  charge  him  for 
the  same.  I  shall  inform  j'ou  by  phone  or  by  a  letter 
the  date  and  time  when  I  shall  require  the  carriage, 
you  will  send  it  with  your  syce  and  at  the  end  of 
every  month  I  shall  pay  off  the  bill.  I  know  driving 
but  not  very  nicely;  and  if  you  kindly  grant  me  my 
humble  prayer  you  may  send  me  a  nice  and  well 
trained  horse  and  I  shall  do  well  with  it.  In  a 
month's  time  I  may  require  it  6  or  7  times  in  the 
evening.  Now,  Sir,  I  do  not  know  how  far  I  have 
[ISO] 


Broken  English 

been  able  to  express  fully  what  I  wish  to  but  I  hope 
you  have  fully  understood  what  I  mean  and  I  pray 
you.  Sir,  to  give  it  a  kind  consideration  and  let  me 
know  of  it  at  your  earliest  convenience.  This  may 
seem  to  you  like  a  fancy  but  I  am  sure  you  have 
understood  what  I  mean  and  desire,  and  again  I 
request  you  to  grant  me  my  humble  prayer  for  which 
act  of  kindness  I  shall  remain  ever  obliging  to  you. 
Please  try  to  give  it  free  of  any  charge;  this  will  not 
affect  your  huge  business  the  least  on  the  other  hand 
will  provide  a  student  with  a  merriest  job  for  which 
act  he  will  pray  to  the  Almightj^  for  the  prosperity 
and  good-name  of  the  firm.  You  have  understood 
what  I  mean  so  kindly  excuse  me  for  the  language 
used.     Please  keep  this  secret  and  confidential. 

A  favourable  reply  is  expected  at  the  earliest  pos- 
sible convenience  by— Sincerely  yours. 

The  African  supplicant  has  now  entered  the 
lists  too,  and  there  are  few  mails  from  the  West 
Coast  that  do  not  bring  to  a  certain  London 
publishing  firm  appeals  for  catalogues  and 
books.  The  difference  between  the  Baboo  and 
the  African  is  very  striking.  The  Baboo  ap- 
proaches the  patron  almost  on  his  stomach,  cer- 
tainly with  a  cringe^  whereas  the  African 
smiles  light-heartedly,  baring  all  his  white  teeth 
with  cheerful  confidence.  Here  is  a  typical  let- 
ter from  a  student  in  Ashanti  to  the  firm  in  ques- 
tion: 

Dear  Sir, — I  am  with  much  pleasure  to  indite  you 
about  your  name  that  has  come   to  my  hand  with 

[131] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

great  joy.  On  the  receipt  of  this  letter,  know  that  I 
want  to  be  one  of  your  fellow  friends.  You  have  been 
reported  to  me  by  a  friend  of  mine  of  your  good 
attention  and  benevolences.  My  openion  of  writing 
you  is  to  say,  I  want  to  take  you  as  my  favourite 
friend.  Everything  or  news  that  may  be  happened 
there  at  your  side,  I  wish  you  to  report  same  to  me. 
And  I  also  shall  report  same  to  you  satisfaction. 
Will  you  be  good  enough  to  agree  with  me?  Then 
I  hope  to  get  few  lines  of  news  from  you  being  as 
you  consented  or  disconsented.  To  have  a  friend  at 
abroad  is  something  that  delights  the  life.  I  am 
earnestly  requested  to  hear  from  you  soon.  I  beg 
to  detain,  dear  Sir,  Yours  truly,  

Thus  does  another  ambitious  youth,  also  in 
Ashanti,  in  whose  veins  the  virus  of  English 
civilisation  has  begun  to  work,  put  his  needs  and 
his  hopes  and  his  potentialities  before  a  well- 
known  London  firm  of  travel  agents  with  out- 
posts all  over  the  world: — 

Dear  Sras, — I  have  the  honour  most  respectfully  to 
bring  this  before  you  to  ask  your  favour  to  remit 
me  down  per  the  very  first  outward  mail  steamer 
to  send  me  passenger's  ticket  so  that  I  may  run  up 
quickly  to  your  station  and  stay  with  you,  because 
I  often  hear  and  know  that  you  are  the  best  trainer  in 
the  city  of  London.  So  I  wish  you  will  send  me  ticket. 
I  am  orphan.  The  object  which  induces  me  to 
write  you  this  letter  is  this,  I  wish  to  be  an  com- 
petent educated  fellow,  but  in  our  Africa  here  there 
exists  no  better  school  and  tutor.  I  hope  you  will  do 
my  request,  and  may  this  my  humble  letter  meet  you 
in  good  condition.  I  am  orphan.  Awaiting  your 
£132] 


Broken  English 

favourable  reply  per  the  next  steamer  coming,  I  beg 
to  be.  Sirs,  Your  obedient  Servant, 


From  China  comes  a  specimen  of  English  as 
fractured  with  the  best  of  motives  by  a  Chinese 
student.  The  Kaiser  having  been  given  as  the 
subject  of  an  essay  competition  by  the  English 
class  in  whatever  celestial  college  it  happened 
to  be,  some  admirable  documents  resulted,  from 
one  of  which  I  take  a  few  salient  sentences: — 

The  German  Kaiser  is  not  the  Superior  Man  as 
deciphered  by  the  Chinese  literature;  he  is  surely  a 
mean  fellow  containirc:  much  fraudish  cunnings  in 
his  deceited  heart.  The  Superior  Man  is  shown  in 
the  merits  of  excellent  heart  with  much  loving  kind- 
ness to  all  peoples;  the  mean  fellow  is  displayed  in 
the  black  heart  of  the  ungenerated  devils  of  the  hell 
with  much  loving  kindness  only  to  himself.  .  .  .  The 
German  Kaiser  he  awfully  wishing  to  slave  the  people 
and  extinct  the  civilisations  of  the  universe;  he 
destroy  the  literature  books,  and  the  arts,  and  the 
ships,  and  mess  the  people  of  Allies  Nations  together 
with  the  intermediate  outstanding  Nations.  .  .  .  Thus 
it  will  be  clearly  seen  by  whole  universal  globe  that 
the  German  Hun  Kaiser  he  conceal  much  brutish 
iniquity  in  his  heart,  and  is  not  fit  to  sit  in  the  pail 
of  the  Allies  Nations  including  the  Chinese  Republic. 

There,  again,  the  meaning  of  the  writer  could 
not  be  made  more  clear  by  perfect  prose. 

And    here    is    a  Japanese    jewel,    which    the 

[133] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

London  office  of  a  Tokio  engineering  house  re- 
ceived not  long  since: 

Regarding  the  matter  of  escaping  penalty  for  non- 
delivery of  the  machine,  there  is  a  way  to  creep 
round  same  by  diplomat.  We  must  make  a  state- 
ment of  big  strike  occur  in  our  factory  (of  course, 
big  untrue).  Please  address  my  firm  in  enclosed 
form  of  letter  and  believe  this  will  avoid  penalty  of 
case. 

As  Mr.  B.  is  a  most  religeous  and  competent  man 
and  also  heavily  upright  and  godly  it  fears  me  that 
useless  apply  for  his  signature.  Please  attach  name 
by  Yokahama  office  making  forge,  but  no  cause  to 
fear  prison  happening  as  this  is  often  operated  by 
other  merchants  of  highest  integrity. 

It  is  highest  unfortunate  Mr.  B.  so  god-like  and 
excessive  awkward  for  business  purpose.  I  think 
much  better  add  little  serpcntlike  wisdom  to  upright 
manhood  and  so  found  a  good  business  edifice. 

From  broken  English  to  broken-hearted 
English  is  but  a  step,  and  I  have  before  me  as 
pretty  an  example  of  that  piteous  tongue  as — 
short  of  a  great  and  tragic  poignancy — could  be 
wished.  It  is  a  letter  written  by  a  little  Ameri- 
can boy  named  Arthur  Severn  Mead  to  his  par- 
ents from  his  first  school. 

My  Most  Dearest  Father  and  Mother, — I  am 
very  sick  and  I  want  to  come  home. 

O  dearest  father  and  mother  I  know  that  you  wont 
refuse  me.  I  have  a  very  bad  headache.  I  dont  eat 
[134] 


Broken  English 


anything  nor  I  dont  sleep  any.  I  lay  awake  every 
night  thinking  of  home  and  you  dearest  father 
and  mother. 

0  dearest  father  and  mother  wilt  thou  father  let 
me  come  home. 

1  cannot  live  here.     I  am  crying  all  the  time. 

I  will  take  it  out  of  my  money  and  will  work  for 
you  all  the  time. 

My  most  dearest  mother  I  was  opening  my  trunk 
today  and  I  found  those  candys  you  put  in  and  O 
dearest  mother  how  I  thaifk  you. 

0  dearest  Father  and  Mother  I  pray  for  you 
every  night  and  morning  and  I  pray  to  Him  that 
you  will  let  me  come  home  and  I  know  that  thou 
wilt  say  "yes." 

1  cannot  go  to  school  because  I  am  so  sick.  O 
dearest  father  and  mother  I  will  love  you  so  much 
and  I  will  never  worry  you  any  more  and  I  will  be 
a  better  boy  if  you  will  only  say  yes. 

Dearest  father  and  mother  I  cannot  live  here.  O 
do  let  me  come  home. 

"Write  now  dearest  father  and  mother  and  say  yes. 

I  send  my  love  to  all. 

Good  bye. — From  your  loving  son, 

Aethur. 
Say  yes  dearest  Father  and  Mother. 


[135] 


ENTHUSIASTS 

IN  turning  over  the  pages  of  "Wisden's  Crick- 
eters' Almanack,"  best  of  year-books,  for 
1919j  I  came  upon  the  obituary  notice  of  a  mon- 
arch new  to  me,  who  died  in  April  of  the  pre- 
ceding year  at  the  age  of  six-and-forty :  George 
Tubow  the  Second,  who  reigned  over  Tonga  and 
was  the  last  of  the  independent  kings  of  the 
Pacific.  As  to  the  qualities  of  head  and  heart 
displayed  by  the  deceased  ruler,  Wisden  is 
silent;  to  inquire  into  such  matters  is  not  that 
annalist's  province.  George  Tubow  the  Second 
won  his  place  in  Wisden's  pages  because  he 
was  a  cricket  fan  and  the  head  of  a  nation  of 
cricket  fans.  "His  subjects  became  so  devoted 
to  the  game  that  it  was  necessary  to  prohibit 
it  on  six  days  of  the  week  in  order  to  avert 
famine,  the  plantation  being  entirely  neglected 
for  the  cricket-field." 

To  what  lengths  of  passion  for  his  game  a 
baseball  fan  can  go,  I  am  not  sufficiently  Ameri- 
canised to  be  able  even  to  guess ;  but  there  is 
certainly  something  about  a  ball,  whatever  its 
size  and  consistency,  that  leads  to  extremes  of 
[136] 


Enthusiasts 

devotion.  For  the  wildest  enthusiasts  we  must 
always  go  to  games.  But  among  collectors  en- 
thusiasts are  numerous,  too.  The  courts  not  long 
since  were  occupied  with  the  case  of  a  gentleman 
of  leisure  who  had  fallen  into  the  moneylenders' 
hands  very  heavily  through  a  passion  for  adding 
dead  butterfly  to  dead  butterfly ;  while  every  one 
knows  the  story  of  one  of  the  Rothschilds  fitting 
out  an  Arctic  expedition  in  the  hope  that  it 
would  bring  back,  alive,  even  a  single  specimen 
of  a  certain  boreal  flea.  All  other  fleas  he  pos- 
sessed, but  this  was  lacking.  On  making  in- 
quiries among  friends  I  find  that  the  classic  ex- 
ample of  enthusiasm  is,  however,  not  a  cricketer 
nor  a  collector,  but  the  actor  who,  when  cast  for 
Othello,  blacked  himself  all  over.  Every  one, 
of  course,  has  heard  the  story,  but  its  origin 
may  not  be  generally  known,  and  I  am  wonder- 
ing if  it  occurred  anywhere  in  print  before  Mr. 
Crummies  confided  it  to  Nicholas  Nickleby. 
Was  it  a  commonplace  of  the  green-room  or  did 
Dickens  (who  was  capable  of  doing  so)  invent 
it?  Joseph  Knight  being  no  more,  to  lighten  the 
small  hours  with  gossip  and  erudition,  who  shall 
tell? 

Meanwhile  I  am  reminded  of  an  incident  in 
modem  stage  history  which  supplies  a  pendant 
to  the  great  Othello  feat.  It  occurred  in  the 
days  when  the  gramophone  was  in  its  infancy 

[137] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

and  the  late  Herbert  Campbell  was  approaching 
his  end.  That  massive  comedian,  who  was  then 
engaged  in  his  annual  task  of  personating  a 
dame  or  a  queen,  or  whatever  was  monumentally 
feminine,  in  the  Drury  Lane  pantomime — as  a 
matter  of  fact,  he  was  at  the  moment  a  dame — 
had  been  invited  by  one  of  the  gramophone 
companies  to  visit  their  office  in  the  City  and 
make  a  record  of  one  or  more  of  his  songs  and 
one  or  more  of  his  dialogues  with  the  other 
funny  man,  whoever  that  might  be.  The  name 
escapes  me;  all  that  I  feel  certain  of  is  that  it 
was  long  after  the  golden  age  when  Herbert 
Campbell  served  as  a  foil  to  the  irresponsible 
vivacity  of  Dan  Leno — who  in  association  with 
him  was  like  quicksilver  running  over  the  surface 
and  about  the  crevices  of  a  rock — and  still 
longer  after  those  regular  Christmas  partner- 
ships with  Harry  Nicholls  which  were  liberal  ed- 
ucations in  worldly  sagacity  tempered  by  non- 
sense. The  name  of  the  other  actor  is,  however, 
unimportant,  for  Herbert  Campbell  is  the  hero 
of  this  tale,  and  it  was  for  Herbert  Campbell's 
songs  and  patter  that  the  operator  was  waiting 
and  the  waxen  discs  had  been  prepared  and  the 
orchestra  was  in  attendance  and  the  manager 
had  taken  his  cheque  book  from  his  desk — for 
"money  down"  is  the  honourable  rule  of  the 
gramophone  industry.  The  occasion  was  fur- 
[138] 


Enthusiasts 

thermore  exceptional  because  it  was  the  first 
time  that  this  popular  performer  had  been  "re- 
corded." Hitherto  he  had  refused  all  Edisonian 
blandishments,  but  to-day  he  was  to  come  into 
line  with  the  other  favourites. 

And  yet  he  did  not  come.  Normally  a  punc- 
tual man,  he  was  late.  Everything  was  ready — 
more  than  ready — and  there  was  no  dame. 

Suddenly  above  the  ground  swell  of  the  traffic 
was  heard,  amid  the  strenuousness  of  the  City 
Road,  the  unaccustomed  sound  of  cheers  and 
laughter.  "Hurray !  Hurray !"  floated  up  to 
the  recording-room  from  the  distant  street  be- 
low, and  every  head  was  stretched  out  to  see 
what  untoward  thing  could  be  happening. 
"Hurray !  Hurray !"  and  more  laughter.  And 
there  was  discerned  an  immense  crowd,  chiefly 
errand-boys,  surrounding  a  four-wheeler,  from 
which  with  the  greatest  difficulty  an  old  lady  of 
immense  proportions,  dressed,  or  rather  uphol- 
stered, in  the  gaily-coloured  clothes  of  the  cen- 
tury before  last,  was  endeavouring  to  alight, 
backwards.  "Hurray  !  Hurray !"  cried  the  boys 
at  every  new  struggle.  At  last  the  emergence 
was  complete,  when  the  old  lady,  standing  up- 
right and  shaking  down  her  garments,  revealed 
herself  as  no  other  than  Herbert  Campbell,  the 
idol  of  "The  Lane,"  who  in  order  to  speak  a  few 

[139] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

words  into  the  funnel  of  a  gramophone  had 
thought  it  needful  to  put  on  every  detail  of  his 
costume  and  to  make  up  that  acreage  of  honesty 
genial  physiognomy. 


[140] 


TELEPHONICS 

AFTER  fighting  against  bondage  for  years 
I  am  now  a  slave:  I  have  a  telephone. 

Although  the  advantages  are  many,  it  means 
that  I  have  lost  the  purest  and  rarest  of  life's 
pleasures — which  was  to  ring  up  from  a  three- 
pence-in-the-s^ot  call-office  (as  I  continually  had 
to  do)  and  not  be  asked  for  the  money.  This,  in 
many  years,  has  happened  to  me  twice ;  and  only 
last  week  I  met  a  very  rich  man  who  is  normally 
of  a  gloomy  cast,  across  whose  features  played 
a  smile  brilliant  with  triumph,  for  it  also  had 
just  happened  to  him. 

On  the  other  hand,  through  having  a  telephone 
of  my  own  I  now  escape  one  of  the  commonest 
and  most  tiresome  of  life's  irritations — which  is 
to  wait  outside  one  of  these  call-offices  while  the 
person  inside  is  carrying  on  a  conversation  that 
is  not  only  unnecessary  and  frivolous,  but  unend- 
ing. In  London  these  offices  are  used  both  by 
men  and  women;  but  in  the  suburbs  by  women 
only,  who  may  be  thought  to  be  romantically 
engaged  but  really  are  reminding  their  husbands 
not  to  forget  the  fish.    The  possession  of  a  tele- 

[141] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

phone  of  one's  own,  however,  does  not,  in  an 
imperfect  world,  put  an  end  to  the  ordeal  of 
waiting.  If  ever  a  fairy  godmother  appeared  to 
me  (but  after  all  these  years  of  postponement  I 
can  hardly  hope  for  her)  with  the  usual  offer  of 
a  granted  wish,  I  should  think  long  before  I  hit 
upon  anything  better  to  ask  for  than  the  restora- 
tion of  all  the  time  I  had  spent  with  my  own 
telephone  at  my  ear  waiting  to  be  answered. 
The  ordinary  delays  can  be  long  enough,  but  for 
true  foretastes  of  eternity  you  must  sit  at  the 
instrument  while  some  one  is  being  fetched  from 
a  distant  part  of  the  building.  This  is  a  fore- 
taste not  only  of  eternity  but  of  perdition,  for 
there  is  nothing  to  do ;  and  to  have  nothing  to  do 
is  to  be  damned.  If  you  had  a  book  by  you, 
you  could  not  read  it,  for  your  thoughts  are  not 
free  to  wander;  all  that  you  are  mentally  capable 
of  is  to  speculate  on  the  progress  of  the  mes- 
senger to  the  person  who  is  wanted,  upstairs  or 
down,  the  present  occupation  of  the  person  who 
is  wanted,  and  the  probable  stages  of  his  journey 
to  the  receiver.  In  this  employment,  minutes, 
hours,  days,  weeks  even,  seem  to  drag  their 
reluctant  length  along. 

You  can  imagine  also  the  attitude  of  the  per- 
son who  is  sent  for.     For  the  telephone,  common 
as  it  now  is,  is  still  associated  with  ceremonial. 
At  any  rate,  I  notice  that  men  called  to  it  by 
[142] 


Telephonies 

page  boys  in  restaurants  and  hotels  have  a 
special  gait  of  importance  proper  to  the  occa- 
sion. 

The  possession  of  a  telephone  no  doubt  now 
and  then  simplifies  life ;  but  its  complications  are 
too  many,  even  if  you  adopt  the  sound  rule  to  be 
more  rung  against  than  ringing.  One  of  them 
is  the  perplexity  incident  to  delays  and  misun- 
derstandings, and,  above  all,  as  to  the  constitu- 
tion of  Exchanges.  We  all,  I  suppose,  have 
our  own  idea  as  to  what  they  are  like ;  there  must 
at  one  time  or  other  have  been  photographs 
in  the  more  informing  of  the  magazines ;  but  I 
missed  them,  and,  therefore,  decline  on  a  vague 
vision  of  machinery  and  wire-eared  ladies.  A 
friend  is  more  definite:  "A  large  building,"  he 
describes  it,  "like  Olympia,  the  roof  lost  in  dark- 
ness, and  pallid  women  moving  about,  spinning 
tops  and  blowing  penny  trumpets."  To  me,  as  I 
have  suggested,  there  is  more  of  Tartarus  than 
Olympus  about  it.  A  sufficient  hell,  indeed,  for 
any  misspent  life,  to  be  continually  calling  up 
numbers,  and  continually  being  met  with  the 
saddest  words  that  are  known  to  men:  "Num- 
ber engaged." 

I  want  to  understand  the  whole  telephone 
system.  I  want  to  know  how  the  operators  all 
get  to  speak  exactly  alike.  Women  can  be  very 
imitative,  I  am  aware :  the  chorus  girl's  transition 

[143] 


A.dventures  and  Enthusiasms 

from  Brixton  to  the  Savoy  restaurant  can  be  as 
natural  as  the  passage  of  dusk  to  dawn,  and  a 
change  of  accent  is  usually  a  part  of  it;  but 
it  is  astonishing  how  the  operators  of  the  differ- 
ent Exchanges  resemble  each  other.  They  can- 
not all  be  one  and  the  same.  Miraculous  as 
is  everything  connected  with  the  telephone — 
talking  quietly  over  wires  that  thread  the  earth 
beneath  the  busiest  and  noisiest  of  pavements 
in  the  world  is  sufficiently  magical— it  would  be 
a  shade  too  marvellous  for  one  operator  to  be 
everywhere  at  once.  Therefore,  there  must  be 
many.  Is  there,  then,  a  school  of  elocution, 
where  instruction  in  the  most  refined  form  of 
speech  ever  known  is  imparted,  together  with 
lessons  in  the  trilling  of  the  letter  R?  Why 
should  they  all  say  "No  replay,"  when  they 
mean  "No  reply"?  And  how  do  they  talk  at 
home?  It  must  be  terrible  for  their  relations 
if  they  don't  come  down  a  peg  or  two  there. 
The  joy  with  which  we  recognise  a  male  voice  at 
the  Exchange  is  another  proof  that  woman  does 
not  really  represent  the  gentler  sex. 

But  these  are  by  no  means  all  the  mysteries  as 
to  which  I  crave  enlightenment.  I  want  to  know 
how  the  odd  and  alarming  noises  are  made. 
There  is  a  tapping,  as  of  a  woodpecker  with 
delirium  tremens,  which  at  once  stuns  and 
electrifies  the  ear.  How  do  they  do  that,  and 
[144] 


Telephonies 

do  they  know  what  its  effect  is  ?  And  why  does- 
one  sometimes  hear  other  convei  sations  over 
other  wires,  and  sometimes  not?  Rarely  are  they 
interesting;  but  now  and  then  .  .  .  My  pen 
falters  as  I  record  the  humiliating  want  of  per- 
spicacity— the  tragic  inability  to  recognise  a  tip 
— which  befell  me  on  the  morning  of  June  4-th, 
1919 — in  other  words,  on  Derby  Day:  the  day 
when  the  art  or  science  of  vaticination  experi- 
enced in  England  its  darkest  hour,  for  every 
prophet  selected  The  Panther.  To  my  annoyance 
I  had  to  listen  to  a  long  conversation  between 
what  seemed  to  be  a  bookmaker  and  his  client 
with  regard  to  money  to  be  placed  on  Grand 
Parade.  This  at  the  time  only  irritated  me,  but 
afterwards,  when  Grand  Parade  had  won  at  33 
to  1,  and  I  recognised  the  interruption  as  an 
effort  of  the  gods  on  my  behalf  (had  I  but  ears 
to  hear),  how  against  my  folly  did  I  rail! 

Telephony,  it  is  clear,  both  from  one's  own 
experience  and  from  reading  the  letters  in  the 
papers,  is  not  yet  an  exact  science.  Not,  that 
is,  in  real  life;  although  on  the  stage  and  in 
American  detective  novels  it  seems  to  be  perfect. 
The  actor  lifts  the  receiver,  mentions  the  num- 
ber, and  begins  instantly  to  talk.  If  he  is  on  the 
film  his  lips  move  like  burning  rubber  and  his 
mouth  becomes  a  shifting  cavern.     Do  the  rank 

[145] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

■and  file  of  us,  I  wonder,  when  telephoning,  thus 
grimace?     I  must  fix  up  a  mirror  and  see. 

There  are  many  good  telephone  stories.  The 
best  that  I  know  is  told  of  a  journalist  with  a 
somewhat  hypertrophied  bump  of  reverence  for 
worldly  success,  whose  employer  is  a  peer.  We 
will  call  the  employer  Lord  Forthestait  and  the 
journalist  Mr.  Blank.  A  number  of  the  staff 
were  talking  together,  in  one  of  the  rooms  of 
the  newspaper,  when  the  telephone  rang. 

"You're  wanted  at  the  'phone,  Mr.  Blank," 
said  the  clerk. 

Blank,  who  was  just  going  out  to  lunch,  came 
back  impatiently  and  snatched  at  the  instrument. 

"Yes,  what  is  it?"  he  snapped  out. 

"Is  that  Blank?"  came  back  the  reply.  "Lord 
Forthestait   speaking." 

"Yes,  my  lord,"  said  Blank,  with  the  meekest 
deference,  removing  his  hat. 


[146] 


THE  WORLD   REMEDIAL 

JOHN  STUART  MILL'S  fear  that  the  notes 
of  the  piano  might  be  used  up  and  tunes 
give  out  is  as  nothing  to  mine  that  a  time  must 
come  when  there  will  be  no  more  whimsical  liter- 
ature in  the  old  book  shops  for  these  eyes  to 
alight  upon.  Meanwhile,  to  renew  my  confi- 
dence, a  friend  sends  me  "The  Compleat  English 
Physician,  or  The  Druggist's  Shop  Opened 
(the  like  not  hitherto  extant")  by  William 
Salmon,  who  dates  his  preface  "From  my  house 
at  the  Blew  Ball  by  the  Ditch-side  near  Holborn 
Bridge,  London,  May  5,  1693."  In  this  ex- 
haustive work  the  whole  of  creation,  animal, 
vegetable,  and  mineral,  is  levied  upon  for  cures 
for  human  ills,  any  of  which  are,  in  the  dedica- 
tion, offered  by  the  author  to  the  Most  Serene 
and  Illustrious  Princess  Mary  II.,  if  she  feels 
herself  to  be  in  need  of  physic  and  will  lay  her 
commands  upon  him. 

According  to  "The  Dictionary  of  National 
Biography,"  which,  however,  does  not  mention 
this  particular  book,  William  Salmon  was  bom 
in   1644,   and  was   educated  by   a  mountebank. 

[1471 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

After  a  certain  amount  of  travel,  he  settled  in 
London  as  an  irregular  practitioner,  with  pills 
for  everything  and  horoscoi^es  to  boot.  The 
suggestion,  made  in  his  lifetime,  that  he  him- 
self did  not  amass  the  lore  that  is  found  in  his 
many  and  copious  volumes,  but  was  merely  an 
amanuensis,  has  the  "Dictionary's"  support;  but 
in  the  preface  to  "The  Compleat  English  Phy- 
sician," Salmon  is  very  tart  and  coarse  and  em- 
phatic about  it  with  one  of  his  detractors  ("the 
nasty  author  of  an  impertinent  and  scurrilous 
pamphlet"),  claiming  to  have  had  thirty  years' 
experience  of  practical  pharmacy.  But  he 
must  have  borrowed  too,  for  thirty  years,  even 
with  a  ten-hours'  day,  could  not  have  sufficed 
to  gather  a  tenth  of  the  mysteries  contained  in 
this  astonishing  work. 

Although  it  is  exclusively  medical,  Salmon 
incidentally  hits  upon  as  deadly  a  formula  for 
anti-social  satire  as  could  be  imagined,  beyond 
even  Swift.  Not  all  the  malignity  of  "Gulliver's 
Travels"  is  so  powerful  to  remove  the  divine 
from  man  as  this  empiric's  simple  inclusion  of 
him  among  the  animals.  Book  V.  is  entitled 
"Of  Man  and  Beasts,"  and  it  begins  thus: 
"Chapter  i.  Homo,  Man  &  Woman.  .  .  .  They 
are  the  general  inhabitants  of  the  Universal 
Globe  of  the  Earth  and  their  food  is  made  of 
Grain,  Pulse,  Fruits,  Flowers,  Roots,  Herbs,  and 
ri48l 


The  World  Remedial 

the  flesh  of  Beasts,  Fowl,  Fishes,  Insects,  etc." 
Salmon  then  goes  on  to  enumerate  the  maladies 
that  the  various  parts  of  man  (and  woman) 
are  good  for.  His  hair,  converted  to  ashes  and 
powdered,  will  cure  the  Green  Sickness  and 
other  disorders  too  elementary  to  name.  Made 
into  an  oil  it  will  ease  pains  caused  by  a  cold 
and  cause  new  hair  to  grow  on  bald  places.  The 
rest  of  him  and  of  her  (I  could  not  possibly  go 
into  details — this  being  not  a  medical  journal 
and  the  date  being  1920  instead  of  1693)  is 
also,  either  as  powder,  volatile  oil,  spirit,  es- 
sence, salt,  magistry,  or  balsam,  beneficial  in  a 
vast  number  of  troubles.  It  is  an  ironical  and 
exasperating  thought  that  we  carry  about  in  our 
bodies  the  cures  for  all  the  ills  that  those  bodies 
suffer  from. 

In  most  of  the  sciences  the  professors  of  the 
day  know  more  than  their  predecessors  of 
yesterday.  Knowledge  accumulates.  But,  after 
dipping  into  Salmon's  twelve-hundred  pages, 
one  sighs  with  relief  that  the  healing  art  has, 
since  1693,  become  comparatively  so  simple;  and 
when  next  sending  for  a  doctor  we  shall  thank 
God  for  his  modern  incompleatness.  For  in 
Salmon's  day,  in  the  pride  of  compleation,  the 
medical  man  might  have  dosed  us  with  our  near- 
est dead  neighbour. 

Having  finished  the  examination  of  man  as 

[149] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

a  treasury  of  restora*^ives,  Salmon  passes  on  to 
Aloes,  the  Elk;  Antilopus,  the  Antelope;  and 
Asinus,  the  Ass.  All  the  beasts  are  therapeuti- 
cally useful  to  man,  but  few  more  so  than 
Asinus,  the  Ass.  Howsoever  valuable  a  living 
donkey  may  be,  he  cannot  compare  with  the  ver- 
satility of  a  donkey  defunct  when  resolved  into 
drugs.  Equus,  the  Horse;  Capra,  the  Goat;  and 
Cercopithecus,  the  Monkey,  are  also  each  a  well- 
stocked  chemist's  shop.  In  fact,  nothing  that 
moves,  whether  on  four  legs  or  two,  fails  to 
yield  up  a  potent  elixir;  but  to  find  man  among 
them  is  the  shock.  Right  and  proper  enough 
that  the  Lord  of  Creation  should  extract  lotions 
and  potions  for  his  ailments  from  his  soulless 
inferiors ;  but  not  from  himself.  That  is  a  low- 
ering thought. 

The  birds  of  the  air  too.  Thus:  the  flesh  of 
Alauda,  the  Lark,  will  ease  the  cholick:  a  thing 
to  remember  at  Ye  Old  Cheshire  Cheese.  Al- 
cedo,  the  Kingfisher,  reduced  to  powder  and 
mixed  with  powder  made  from  a  man's  skull,  and 
a  little  salt  of  amber,  is  excellent  against  the 
epilepsy.  A  number  of  swallows  beaten  to 
pieces  in  a  mortar  (terrible  thought!)  produce  a 
residuum  that  will  prevent  the  falling  sickness. 
For  restoring  a  lost  memory  the  heart  of  Hi- 
rundo,  the  Swallow,  to  which  the  filings  of  a 
man's  skull  (Mr.  Pelman's  for  choice?)  and 
[150] 


The  World  Remedial 

dried  peony  roots  are  added,  is  sovran.  Even 
the  nest  of  Hirundo,  the  Swallow,  is  of  use; 
made  into  a  cataplasm  it  not  only  eases  a  quinsie, 
but  will  cure  the  bite  of  a  serpent.  Nor  are  the 
fragile  systems  of  Rubecula,  the  Robin  Red- 
breast, and  Regulus,  the  Wren  (shade  of 
Blake!),  without  medicinal  utility.  The  flesh  of 
Lucinia,  the  Nightingale,  cures  consumptives, 
while  its  gall  mixed  with  honey  makes  an  ex- 
cellent eollyrium  for  the  eyes ;  but  singing-birds 
surely  should  be  exempted  from  active  service 
under  druggists.  "Yet"  (you  say)  "if  the  night- 
ingale cures  consumption,  it  might  have  cured 
Keats."  True,  but  had  Keats  accepted  that 
remedy  he  would  not  have  been  Keats. 

It  is  when  writing  of  Lucinia,  the  Nightin- 
gale, that  Salmon  interpolates  a  remark — • 
wholly  gratuitous — which  gives  him  a  place 
apart  among  authors.  He  perpetrates  a  curi- 
osity of  literature:  the  most  unpoetical  thing 
ever  written.  "A  Mr.  Wilkinson,  a  clergy- 
man," is  merely  the  least  poetical  line  in  poetry ; 
but  to  say  that  Lucinia,  the  Nightingale,  "grows 
fat  in  autumn/'  is  positively  to  undo  magic. 


[151T 


WHAT   THE    SUN   DID   NOT   SEE— FOR 
FAR  TOO  LONG 

ONCE  upon  a  time,"  said  the  Sun,  "there 
was  a  meadow  surrounded  by  a  flint  walk, 
wliere  I  caused  the  buttercups  to  shine  like  bur- 
nished gold,  and  where  the  grass  was  high  and 
green  and  as  long  as  the  pony  and  the  donkey 
who  inhabited  the  meadow  would  allow  it  to  be. 
Here  and  there  was  a  cowslip;  while  near  the 
house  were  hen-coops  with  old  hens  in  them 
whose  anxious  heads  protruded  through  the 
bars  querulously  shouting  instructions  to  their 
fluffy  children. 

"Such,"  said  the  Sun,  "was  the  meadow, 
which  was  interesting  to  me  chiefly  because 
it  was  the  playground  of  a  small  but  very 
vigorous  and  restless  boy  named  Nobby,  whose 
merry  inquiring  face  it  gave  me  peculiar  plea- 
sure to  tan  and  to  freckle. 

"A  small  boy  can  do,"  said  the  Sun,  "a  thou- 
sand things  in  a  meadow  like  this,  even  without 
the  company  of  a  donkey  and  a  pony,  and 
Nobby  did  them  all ;  while  his  collection  of  per- 
forming wood-lice  was  unique. 
[152] 


What  the  Sun  Did  Not  See 

"But  a  morning  came  when  he  was  absent. 
I  was  shining  at  my  best,  the  buttercups  were 
glowing,  there  was  even  an  aeroplane  manoeu- 
vring in  the  blue — which  is  still,  I  notice,  a  cer- 
tain lure  to  both  young  and  old — but  no  Nobby. 
The  wood-lice  crept  about  or  rolled  themselves 
into  balls,  all  unnoticed  and  immune. 

"'This  is  very  odd,'  I  heard  the  pony  say; 
'he's  never  neglected  us  before.' 

"  'Passing  strange,'  said  the  donkey,  who 
affected  archaic  speech.  'And  on  so  blithe  and 
jocund  a  morn  too.' 

"So  saying  they  resumed  their  everlasting 
meal,  but  continually  turned  their  eyes  to  the 
earden-gate  through  which  Nobby  would  have 
to  pass.  I  also  kept  my  eyes  wide  for  him;  but 
all  in  vain ;  and  what  made  it  more  perplex- 
ing was  that  Nobby's  mother  came  in  and  fed 
the  chickens,  and  Nobby's  aunt  came  in  with  a 
rug  and  a  book  and  settled  down  to  be  comfort- 
able; and  that  meant  that  the  boy  was  not 
absent  on  a  visit  to  the  town,  because  one  of 
them  would  have  gone  too. 

"  'That  settles  it,'  said  the  donkey,  who  had, 
for  an  ass,  quite  a  lot  of  sense:  'Nobby  is  ill.' 

"The  donkey  was  right — or  approximately  so, 
as  I  afterwards  found  out.  Nobby  was  ill.  That 
is  to  say,  he  was  in  bed,  because  that  morning 
he  had  sneezed — not  through  looking  up  at  me, 

[153] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

but  for  no  reason  at  all — and  his  mother,  who 
was  a  very  careful  mother,  had  at  once  fetched 
the  clinical  thermometer  and  taken  his  tempera- 
ture, and  behold  it  was  a  hundred.  So  Nobby 
was  not  allowed  to  get  up,  but  now  lay  there 
watching  my  rays  pouring  into  the  room,  and 
listening  to  the  buzz  of  the  aeroplane,  and 
longing  to  be  out  in  the  meadow  with  the 
donkey  and  the  pony  and  the  wood-lice. 

"That,  however,  would  never  do ;  for  'It  all 
comes,'  his  mother  had  said,  'of  sitting  about  in 
that  long  grass  so  much,  and  so  early  in  the  year 
too' — a  line  of  argument  hardly  likely  to  appeal 
to  a  small  and  vigorous  boy  who  does  not  reckon 
summer  by  dates  and  to  whom  prudence  is  as 
remote  as  one-pound  Treasury  notes. 

"Anyway,"  said  the  Sun,  "he  was  paying  for 
it  now,  for  was  he  not  in  bed  and  utterly  sick  of 
it,  while  the  rest  of  the  world  was  out  and  about 
and,  warmed  and  cheered  by  me,  completely 
jolly?  Moreover,  he  didn't  feel  ill.  No  self- 
respecting  boy  would,  of  course,  admit  to  feeling 
ill  ever;  but  Nobby  was  genuinely  unconscious 
of  anything  wrong  at  all.  Not,  however,  until 
his  temperature  went  down  would  he  be  allowed 
to  get  up;  that  was  the  verdict.  But  that  was 
not  all.  Until  it  came  down  he  would  be  allowed 
nothing  but  slops  to  eat. 

"His  mother  took  his  temperature  again  be- 
[154] 


What  the  Sun  Did  Not  See 

fore  lunch,  and  it  was  still  a  hundred ;  and  then 
at  about  half-past  four,  when  human  beings,  I 
understand,  get  a  little  extra  feverish,  and  it 
was  still  a  hundred;  and  then  at  last  came  the 
night,  and  Nobby  went  to  sleep  confident  that 
to-morrow  would  re-establish  his  erratic  blood. 

"On  the  morrow  he  woke  long  before  any  one 
else,"  said  the  Sun,  "and  sat  up  and  saw  that 
I  was  shining  again,  without  the  vestige  of  a 
cloud  to  bother  me,  and  he  felt  his  little  body 
to  see  how  hot  it  was,  and  was  quite  sure  that 
at  last  he  was  normal  again,  but  he  couldn't  tell 
until  his  mother  was  up  and  about.  The  weary 
hours  went  by,  and  at  last  she  came  in  just 
before  breakfast  with  the  thermometer  in  her 
hand. 

"  'I'm  certain  I'm  all  right  to-day,'  I  heard 
Nobby  say.     'I  feel  quite  cool  everywhere.' 

"But,  alas  and  alack,"  said  the  Sun,  "he 
was  a  hundred  still. 

"  'My  poor  mite !'  his  mother  exclaimed,  and 
Nobby  burst  into  tears. 

"'Mayn't  I  get  up?  Mayn't  I  get  up?'  he 
moaned;  'I  feel  so  frightfully  fit.'  But  his 
mother  said  no,  not  till  the  temperature  had 
gone  down.  You  see,"  added  the  Orb  of  Day, 
"when  Nobbies  are  only-sons  and  those  only- 
sons'  fathers  are  fighting  the  enemy,  mothers 
have  to  be  more  than  commonly  cautious  and 

[155] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

particular.  You  will  wonder  perhaps  why  she 
didn't  send  for  the  doctor,  but  it  was  for  two 
reasons,  both  womanly  ones,  and  these  were  that 
(a)  she  didn't  like  the  locum,  her  own  doctor 
being  also  at  the  War,  and  (6)  she  believed  in 
bed  and  nursing  as  the  best  cure  for  everything. 

"And  so  all  through  another  long  day — and 
when  you  are  vigorous  and  robust,  like  Nobby, 
and  accustomed  to  every  kind  of  impulsive  and 
adventurous  activity,  day  can  be,  in  bed^ 
appallingly  long — Nobby  was  kept  a  prisoner, 
always  with  his  temperature  at  a  hundred,  and 
always  with  nothing  to  bite,  and  growing  stead- 
ily more  and  more  peevish  and  difficult,  so  much 
so  that  his  mother  became  quite  happy  again, 
because  it  is  very  well  known  that  when  human 
invalids  are  testy  and  impatient  with  their 
nurses  they  are  getting  better. 

"But  when  on  the  third  morning,  although 
Nobby 's  temper  had  become  too  terrible  for 
words,  his  temperature  was  still  a  hundred,  his 
mother  began  to  be  alarmed  again.  'It's  very 
strange,'  she  said  to  her  sister,  'but  he  seems 
perfectly  well  and  cool,  and  yet  the  thermometer 
makes  him  still  a  hundred.  What  do  you  think 
we  ought  to  do.''' 

"Nobby 's  aunt,  who  was  a  wise  woman,  al- 
though unmarried,  went  up  and  examined  her 
nephew  for  herself.  'He  certainly  looks  all 
[156] 


What  the  Sun  Did  Not  See 

right  to  me/  she  said,  'and  he  feels  all  right  too. 
Do  you  think  that  the  thermometer  might  be 
faulty?  Let  me  try  it';  and  with  these  words 
Nobby's  aunt  shook  the  thermometer  down  and 
then  put  it  under  her  tongue  and  gave  it  a  good 
two  minutes,  and  behold  it  said  a  hundred;  and 
then  Nobby's  mother  shook  it  down  and  tried 
it  and  gave  it  a  good  two  minutes,  and  behold  it 
said  a  hundred ;  and  the  cook  was  a  hundred  too, 
and  the  gardener  was  a  hundred,  and  the  girl 
who  came  in  to  help  was  a  hundred,  and  prob- 
ably the  donkey  would  have  been  a  hundred, 
and  the  pony  a  hundred,  if  they  had  been  tested, 
because  a  hundred  was  the  thermometer's  hu- 
morous idea  of  normal;  and  so,"  added  the  Sun, 
"Nobby's  mother  and  aunt  rushed  upstairs  two 
or  three  at  a  time,  having  a  great  sense  of  jus- 
tice, and  pulled  him  out  of  bed  and  dressed  him 
and  hugged  him  and  told  him  to  be  happy  once 
more. 

"And  a  couple  of  seconds  after  this,"  said  the 
Sun,  bringing  the  story  to  a  close.  "I  saw  him 
again." 


[157] 


TWO  OF  MARTHA'S  SONS 

MR.  KIPLING,  dividing,  in  that  fine  poem, 
men  into  the  Sons  of  Martha  and  the 
Sons  of  Mary — the  Sons  of  Martha  being  the 
servants  and  the  Sons  of  Mary  the  served — 
characteristically  lays  his  emphasis  on  those  who 
make  machinery  to  move.     Thus: 

The  Sons  of  Mary  seldom  bother,  for  they  have  in- 
herited that  good  part, 

But  the  Sons  of  Martha  favour  their  Mother  of  the 
careful   soul   and   the   troubled   heart; 

And  because  she  lost  her  temper  once,  and  because 
she  was  rude  to  the  Lord  her  Guest, 

Her  Sons  must  wait  upon  Mary's  Sons,  world  with- 
out end,  reprieve  or  rest. 

It  is  their  care,  in  all  the  ages,  to  take  the  buffet  and 

cushion   the   shock. 
It  is  their  care  that  the  gear  engages — it  is  their  care 

that  the   switches  lock. 
It  is  their  care  that  the  wheels  run  truly — it  is  their 

care  to  embark  and  entrain. 
Tally,  transport,  and  deliver  duly  the  Sons  of  Mary 

by  land  and  main. 

Mr.    Kipling,    as    I    say,    is    thinking   more    of 
highly  trained  and  efficient  operatives  than  of 
[158] 


Two  of  Martha's  Sons 

the  quieter  ministrants ;  but,  after  all,  some  of 
Mary's  Sons — possibly  the  majority  of  them — 
stay  at  home  and  refrain  from  running  the  Em- 
pire, and  these  too  count  upon  their  cousins  for 
assistance. 

A  very  large  number  of  Martha's  Sons,  for 
example,  become  waiters ;  and  waiters  are  a  race 
to  whom  insufficient  justice  has  been  done  by 
men  of  letters.  There  should  be  a  Book  of 
Waiters,  as  there  was  a  Book  of  Doctors  and  a 
Book  of  Lawyers  by  the  late  Cordy  Jeaffreson, 
and  a  Book  of  the  Table  by  the  late  Dr.  Doran. 
Old  waiters  for  choice:  men  who  have  mellowed 
in  their  calling;  men  who  have  tasted  wines  for 
themselves  and  studied  human  nature  when  it 
eats  and  is  vulnerable.  I  wish  somebody  would 
compile  it.  It  should  be  a  cosmopolitan  work: 
England's  old  waiters  must  be  there,  and 
France's,  upon  whom  most  clubmen  of  any  age 
ought  to  be  able  to  enlarge  fruitily.  In  fact,  all 
well-stored  Bohemian  memories  in  London  and 
Paris  should  yield  much.  And  Ireland's  old 
waiters  most  conspicuously  must  be  there;  but 
whoever  is  to  write  this  book  must  hasten  to 
collect  the  material,  for  in  Ireland,  I  am  told, 
the  old  waiter  is  vanishing.  An  elderly  Irish 
gentleman  with  whom  I  was  talking  recently — 
or,  rather,  to  whom  I  was  listening  as  he 
searched  his  memory  for  drolleries  of  the  past 

[159] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

— said  that  the  disappearance,  under  modern 
conditions,  of  the  old  humorous  independent 
waiters  of  his  earlier  day  is  the  one  which  he 
personally  most  regretted.  No  longer,  said  he, 
are  to  be  found,  except  very  occasionally,  these 
worthy  friends  of  the  traveller — Martha's  Sons 
at  their  best,  or,  at  any  rate,  at  their  most 
needed.  Slow  they  may  have  been,  not  always 
strictly  sober,  and  often  despotic;  but  they  were 
to  be  counted  upon  as  landmarks:  they  extended 
a  welcome,  they  fed  the  hungry  (in  time),  they 
slaked  the  thirsty  (more  quickly),  and  they 
made  remarks  amusing  enough  to  fortif}'  their 
good  points  and  palliate  their  bad.  "There  was 
an  old  fellow  named  Terence  at  Limerick,"  said 
my  friend,  and  there  followed  two  or  three  char- 
acteristic anecdotes  of  old  Terence  at  Limerick. 
"There  was  old  Tim  at  Tralee,"  and  he  painted 
old  Tim  for  me  in  a  few  swift  strokes — red  nose, 
creaking  legs,  and  all.  What  though  his  nose 
was  red  and  his  legs  creaked,  Tralee  is  no 
longer  worth  visiting,  because  Tim  is  not  there. 
That  was  the  burden  of  the  lament.  These  old 
fellows  have  passed,  and  the  new  waiters,  most 
of  whom  are  foreigners  or  girls,  can  never 
mature  into  anything  comparable  with  them. 

Two  of  my  friend's  stories  I  may  tell.     One  is 
of  old  Dennis  at  Mallow,  who  on  being  asked  if 
the  light  in  the  coffee-room  could  not  be  made 
[160] 


Two  of  Martha's  Sons 

brighter,  said,  in  that  charming  definitive  Irish 
way,  that  it  could  not.  "Is  it  always  like 
this?"  my  friend  then  inquired.  "It  is  not, 
sorr,"  said  old  Dennis;  "it  is  often  worse."  Not 
a  great  anecdote,  but  you  must  brave  the  horrors 
of  St.  George's  Channel  to  meet  with  these  allur- 
ing unexpectednesses  of  speech.  Imagine  an 
English  waiter  tlius  surprising  one !  The  other 
story  is  of  old  Florence,  head  waiter  at  a  certain 
Irish  yacht  club.  Some  sojourners  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood, having  been  elected  honorary  mem- 
bers for  the  period  of  their  visit,  asked  a  few 
American  friends  to  dine  there,  and  then,  even 
while  in  the  boat  on  their  way  to  dinner,  sud- 
denly realised  that  honorary  members  are  en- 
titled to  no  such  privileges.  It  was  decided  to 
put  the  case  to  old  Florence.  "Have  you  a  rule 
against  honorary  members  inviting  guests?" 
"We  have,  sorr,"  said  he.  "Is  it  very  strictly 
enforced?  I  mean,  would  there  be  any  risk  in 
breaking  it?"  "There  would  not,  sorr.  The 
only  rule  in  this  club  that  is  never  broken,  sorr, 
is  the  one  which  forbids  gratuities  to  be  given 
to  the  waiters." 

For  those  Sons  of  Martha  who  make  their  liv- 
ing— and  not  a  bad  one — ^by  ministering  to  their 
hungry  fellow-creatures  there  is  no  call  to  feel 
sorry.  They  are  often  not  only  richer  but 
happier  than  their  customers,  and  when  the  time 

[161] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

comes  thev  retire  to  snug  little  houses  (of  which 
they  not  infrequently  own  a  row)  with  a  com- 
petence, and  pass  the  evening  of  life  with  their 
pipe  and  glass,  their  friends  and  grandchildren, 
moving  serenely,  if  perhaps  with  a  shade  too 
plantigrade  a  step  (the  waiters'  heritage),  to  the 
grave.  No  call,  as  I  say,  to  feel  sorry  for  them ; 
but  what  of  those  other  Sons  of  Martha,  the 
railway  porters,  who  while  helping  us  to  travel 
and  get  away  from  home  never  travel  or  get 
away  from  home  themselves,  and  for  ever  are 
carrj'ing  or  wheeling  heavy  trunks  or  searching 
for  visionary  cabs  ? 

The  mere  fact  of  never  having  a  holiday  is  not 
in  itself  distressing.  Holidays  often  are  over- 
rated disturbances  of  routine,  costly  and  un- 
comfortable, and  they  usually  need  another 
holiday  to  correct  their  ravages.  Men  who 
take  no  holidays  must  not,  therefore,  necessarily 
become  objects  of  our  pity.  But  I  confess  to 
feeling  sorry  for  those  servants  of  the  public 
who  apparently  not  only  never  take  a  holiday 
themselves,  but  who  spend  all  their  lives  in  as- 
sisting others  to  get  away. 

It  is  probably  no  privation  to  a  bathing-ma- 
chine man  never  to  enter  the  sea;  uproariously 
happy  in  that  element  as  his  clients  can  be, 
their  pleasure,  in  which  he  has  no  share,  does 
not,  I  imagine,  embitter  his  existence.  Similarly. 
[162] 


Two  of  Martha's  Sons 

since  a  waiter  either  has  eaten  or  is  soon  to  eat, 
we  need  not  waste  sympathy  on  his  unending 
task  of  setting  seductive  dishes  before  others. 
But  it  is  conceivable  that  some  of  those  weary 
and  dejected  men  whom  one  sees  at  Victoria 
Station,  for  example,  in  the  summer,  eternally 
making  an  effort,  however  unsuccessful,  to  cope 
with  the  exodus  of  Londoners  to  the  south  coast, 
really  would  like  also  to  repose  on  Brighton 
beach.  But  they  may  not.  Their  destiny  is 
for  ever  to  help  others  to  that  paradise,  and 
remain  at  Victoria  themselves.  Just  as  Moses 
was  denied  the  Children  of  Israel's  Promised 
Land,  so  are  the  porters.  The  engine-driver  can 
go,  the  stoker  can  go,  the  guard  can  go, — indeed, 
they  must  go, — but  the  porters  get  no  nearer 
than  the  carriage  doors  and  then  wheel  back 
again.  And  if  the  plight  of  the  porters  at  Vic- 
toria is  unenviable,  think  of  that  of  the  porters 
at  the  big  termini  on  the  other  side  of  London 
and  elsewhere  when  they  read  the  labels  on  the 
luggage  which  they  handle ! — labels  for  the 
west,  for  the  land  of  King  Arthur;  labels  for  the 
north,  for  delectable  Highland  retreats ;  labels 
for  Northumberland  and  Yorkshire;  labels  for 
the  east  coast;  labels  for  Kerry  and  Galway 
and  Connemara. 


[163] 


FREAKS  OF  MEMORY 

IT  was  my  fortune  not  long  since  to  meet 
again,  in  the  flesh,  the  most  famous  of  our 
prophets — Old  ISIoore,  whose  cautious  vaticina- 
tion is  on  sale  even  in  the  streets.  To  my  dis- 
may he  did  not  recognise  me.  Not  that  a  want 
of  recognition  is  so  rare — very  far  from  it — 
but  the  surprise  is  that  a  being  gifted  with  such 
preternatural  vision  should  thus  fail,  when  I, 
who  am  only  an  ordinary  person,  knew  him 
again  instantly.  Long  habits  of  fixing  his  pene- 
trating gaze  on  the  murky  future  have  no  doubt 
rendered  the  backward  look  less  simple  to  him. 
Anyway,  there  we  stood,  I  challenging  him  to 
remember  me  and  he  failing  to  do  so.  This  mo- 
mentary superiority  of  my  own  poor  wits  over 
those  of  a  man  who  (undismayed  by  the  re- 
fusal of  events  always  to  fall  into  line)  foretells 
so  much,  uplifted  me;  but  the  untrustworthi- 
ness  of  memory  is  so  constant  and  lands  one  in 
such  embarrassments  that  it  is  foolish  for  any- 
one to  boast. 

Among  the  marvels  of  the  human  machine, 
memory   is,   indeed,   strangest.      The   great  be- 
wildering fact  of  memory  at  all — of  the  miracle 
of  the  brain — is,  of  course,  as  far  beyond  our 
[164] 


Freaks  of  Memory 

finite  apprehension  as  the  starry  heavens.  Of 
never  dare  to  think.  But  the  minor 
caprices  of  memory  may,  fittingly  enough,  en- 
gage our  wonder.  The  lawlessness  of  our  pre- 
hensile apparatus,  for  example — the  absurdly 
unreasoning  system  of  selection  of  such  things 
as  are  to  be  permanent — how  explain  these? 
And  why  should  memory  be  subject  also  to  that 
downward  tendency  in  life  which  forces  us  al- 
ways to  fight  if  we  would  save  the  best?  It 
would  have  been  just  as  easy,  at  the  start,  when 
the  whole  affair  was  in  the  making,  to  have 
given  an  upward  impulse.  That  was  not  done, 
but  the  memory,  at  any  rate,  being  all  spirit, 
might  have  been  exempted  from  the  general  law. 
But  no;  as  we  grow  older,  not  only  do  we  re- 
member with  less  and  less  accuracy,  but  of  what 
we  retain  much  is  inferior  to  that  which  once 
we  had  but  now  have  lost. 

I,  for  example,  who  once  had  long  passages 
not  only  from  the  great  poets,  but  also  from  the 
less  great  but  often  more  intimate  poets, — such 
as  Matthew  Arnold  and  William  Cory,  to  men- 
tion two  favourites, — ^at  the  tip  of  the  tongue, 
now  have  to  recite  myself  to  sleep  with  a  Bab 
Ballad.  That  piece  of  nonsense  never  fails  me, 
but  I  cannot  at  this  moment  give  the  right  se- 
quence of  any  two  of  the  quatrains  of  the 
"Rubaiyat"  of    Omar  Khayyam,  although  once, 

[165] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

and  for  years,  I  had  the  whole  poem  complete 
too.  I  would  rather  have  been  left  the  wistful 
Persian  than  Gilbert's  "Etiquette/'  but  the  jade 
Memory  had  other  views. 

Any  prose  that  I  might  once  have  learned 
naturally  faded  first,  because  there  was  no 
rhyme  or  metre  to  assist  retention;  but  why  is  it 
that  there  is  one  sentence  which,  never  wholly 
mine,  flits  so  often  before  the  inward  eye  ?  It  is 
in  that  story  of  Mr.  Kipling's  of  the  mutinous 
elephant  who  refused  to  work  because  his  master 
was  too  long  absent.  This  master,  one  Dheesa 
(you  will  remember),  having  obtained  leave  for 
a  jaunt,  exceeded  his  term;  and  the  sentence 
which  recurs  to  me,  hazily  and  hauntingly,  often 
twice  a  day  and  usually  once,  with  no  apparent 
reason  or  provocation,  is  this :  "Dheesa  had 
vagabonded  along  the  roads  till  he  met  a  mar- 
riage procession  of  his  own  caste,  and  drinking, 
dancing,  and  tippling,  had  drifted  past  all 
knowledge  of  the  lapse  of  time."  Now,  surely, 
out  of  all  the  thousands  of  books  which  I  have 
read  and  more  or  less  dimly  remember,  it  is 
very  strange  that  this  should  be  almost  the  only 
sentence  that  is  photographed  on  the  mind. 

Once  I  knew  many  psalms :  I  know  them  no 

longer,  but  I  have  never  forgotten  a  ridiculous 

piece  of  dialogue  in  a  book  called  "The  World 

of  Wit  and  Humour,"  which  I  was  studying,  on 

[166] 


Freaks  of  Memory 

weekdays,   at  the   same   time,  how  many  years 
ago: 

"Father,  I  ha%^e  spilt  the  butter.  What  shall  I 
do?" 

"Rub  it  briskly  with  a  woollen  fabric." 

"Why?" 

"Because  friction  generates  caloric,  which  volatises 
the  oleaginous  particles  of  the  stearine  matter." 

— And  once  I  knew  many  psalms. 

One  of  the  odd  things  about  what  we  call  loss 
of  memory  is  that  it  is  catching.  How  often 
when  one  person  forgets  a  name  well  known  to 
him  does  his  companion,  to  whom  it  is  equally 
well  known,  forget  it  too.  Why  is  that?  The 
other  day  I  had  an  excellent  example  of  this 
curious  epidemic.  It  was  necessary  for  the 
name  of  a  certain  actor — not  a  star,  but  a  versa- 
tile repertory  actor  of  distinction — to  be  re- 
called in  order  that  a  letter  to  him  might  quickly 
be  despatched.  I  had  forgotten  his  name,  but 
I  described  him  and  his  methods  with  sufficient 
accuracy  for  every  one  (there  were  about  six  of 
us)  to  recognise  him.  Some  of  us  could  even 
say  in  what  parts  we  had  seen  him  and  compare 
notes  as  to  his  excellence,  and  yet  his  name  ab- 
solutely eluded  one  and  all.  Why?  We  all 
knew  it;  why  did  we  unanimously  fail  to  know 
it  then? 

We  parted  intent  upon  obtaining  this  neces- 

[167] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

sary  information^  my  last  sapient  words  being 
that  to  the  best  of  my  belief  his  first  name  was 
Joseph  and  his  second  began  with  P.  On  meet- 
ing again  the  next  day,  each  of  us  had  it  pat 
enough,  and  it  had  broken  upon  each,  more  or 
less  suddenly,  during  the  night.  Since  the  name 
was  Michael  Sherbrooke,  you  will  understand 
why,  in  my  case,  its  arrival  was  peculiarly  grati- 
fying. If  I  am  not  now  known  to  those  others 
as  Mrs.  Nickleby,  it  is  only  because  they  are  so 
kind-hearted. 

The  great  mystery  is,  WHiere,  while  one  is 
forgetting  them,  are  the  things  one  forgets,  but 
suddenly  will  remember  again  ?  Where  are  they 
lurking?  This  problem  of  their  whereabouts, 
their  capacity  to  hide  and  elude,  distresses  me 
far  more  than  one's  inability  to  call  them  from 
the  vasty  deep  of  the  brain.  Or  are  they,  per- 
haps, not  there  at  all.''  Do  they  not,  perhaps, 
have  evenings  out,  times  off  for  lunch  and  so 
forth,  and  thus  we  sometimes  miss  them?  Or 
can  there  perhaps  be  some  vast  extra-mural 
territory  of  the  brain  from  which  facts  have 
to  be  fetched — as,  if  one  would  consult  old 
newspapers  at  the  British  Museum,  one  must 
wait  until  the  volumes  can  be  brought  from 
Hendon?  The  fact  that  they  always,  or  nearly 
always,  return,  sooner  or  later,  rather  supports 
these  theories. 
[168] 


THE  MORAL  DRESSING-TABLE 

THE  prettiest  little  book  that  ever  I  saw  lies 
before  me.  It  is  called  "The  Toilet/'  and 
was  published  by  the  author  in  1821  and  sold 
by  Mr.  Sams,  bookseller  to  H.R.H.  the  Duke 
of  York,  at  No.  1  St.  James's  Street;  for 
princes  in  those  days  had  their  own  booksellers 
no  less  than  their  own  wine-cellars.  Times  have 
changed,  and  to-day  No.  1  St.  James's  Street 
is  a  block  of  flats,  and  the  Duke  surveys  London 
from  the  top  of  a  column  of  stone. 

The  author  of  "The  Toilet"  was  "S.  G." 
(standing  for  Stacey  Grimaldi),  and  the  pur- 
pose of  his  book — so  laudable  then  and  how 
unnecessary  now ! — was  to  make  young  women 
better.  This  task  was  to  be  performed  by 
means  of  a  preface  and  a  number  of  verses, 
but  chiefly  by  a  series  of  copperplate  engrav- 
ings with  movable  covers.  I  have  seen  old 
gardening  books  on  this  principle,  by  Capability 
Brown  and  others,  in  which  the  potentialities 
of  gentlemen's  places  are  made  evident  by  the 
same  mechanical  means.  Thus,  by  lifting  up 
one  clump  of  trees   you   see   where   the  house 

[169] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

could  most  advantageously  stand,  and  by  lift- 
ing up  another  you  gaze  along  the  lovely  avenue 
that  ought  to  be  planted  there,  and  so  forth; 
but  I  never  saw  good  manners  and  high  ideals 
inculcated  in  this  way.  That  they  can  be  "The 
Toilet"  proves. 

But  let  me  explain.  The  articles  illustrated 
are  those  that  are  found  in  ladies'  boudoirs, 
such  as  mirrors,  and  jewel  case,  and  bottles  of 
essence — all  very  charmingly  designed  as  though 
by  a  Chippendale.  Indeed,  the  copy  which 
lies  before  me— as  pretty  a  little  book,  did  I 
say.''  as  ever  I  saw — is  known  by  its  owner  as 
"The  Chippendale  Book";  and  never  could  the 
effort  to  get  gentleness  and  the  best  manners 
into  an  impressionable  female  nature  be  more 
ingeniously  or  ingratiatingly  made.  Imagine, 
now,  the  fair  one  opening  at  the  preface,  where 
she  reads  at  once  these  words:  "I  request  your 
acceptance  of  a  few  appendages  to  your  toilet, 
of  extreme  beauty  and  value,  though  some  of 
them  may  be  at  variance  with  modern  fashions." 
She  then  turns  on  and  finds  that  the  appendages 
consist  of  an  Enchanting  Mirror,  a  Wash  to 
Smooth  Wrinkles,  some  Superior  Rouge,  some 
Matchless  Ear  Rings,  a  Fine  Lip  Salve,  a  Mix- 
ture to  Sweeten  the  Voice,  and  so  forth — each 
delicately  drawn. 

Before  lifting  the  cover  of  the  mirror  she 
[170] 


The  Moral  Dressing- Table 

reads  that  it  is  long  since  many  of  the  gay 
inhabitants  of  the  town  have  decorated  them- 
selves before  it,  and  then,  lifting  the  cover, 
discovers  the  word  "Humility"  on  the  glass. 
Fanc}-  the  shock  to  the  frivolous  and  vain ! 
But  humility  is  not  all;  Uriah  Heep  had  that 
and  still  was  a  most  undesirable  person,  and  so 
she  must  read  on,  all  recipiency.  Doing  so  she 
learns  that  it  is  singular  that  although  we  do 
generally  wear  ear-rings  similar  to  those  in  the 
jewel  case  in  the  presence  of  a  superior,  we 
are  apt  to  cast  them  off  in  the  company  of  our 
inferiors;  and,  lifting  the  lid  of  the  case,  she 
finds  the  word  "Attention"  within.  And  so  on 
through  the  book.  The  Wash  to  Smooth 
Wrinkles  turns  out  to  be  Contentment;  the 
Universal  Beautifier  is  Good  Humour;  the  Best 
White  Paint  is  Innocence;  the  Superior  Rouge 
is  Modesty;  the  Mixture  giving  Sweetness  to 
the  Voice  is  Mildness  and  Truth  (where  is  the 
young  woman  who  any  longer  wants  mildness?), 
and  the  Finest  Lip  Salve  is  Cheerfulness. 

Finally  we  come  to  a  very  beautiful  flowered 
pot — I  wish  you  could  see  it — containing  "The 
Late  King's  Eye  Water" — the  late  King  being 
George  III,  the  father  of  the  Prince  whose  own 
particular  bookseller  put  forth  this  little  volume. 
All  the  time,  from  the  first  moment  of  opening 
it,  I  had  the  feeling  that  somewhere  hovering 

[171] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

around  or  over  "The  Toilet"  was  the  spirit  of 
the  courtier.  Its  blend  of  discretion  and  ele- 
gance is  such  as  a  palace  mentor  could  hardly 
be  without,  and  the  description  of  the  Late 
King's  Eye  Water  settled  it.  "You  are  perhaps 
aware  that  our  late  much-beloved  King  pos- 
sessed bad  sight,  and,  doubtless,  many  different 
eye  waters  were  prescribed  for  his  use;  but  I 
can  assure  you,  that  whatever  else  the  good 
Monarch  might  have  used,  he  invariably  pos- 
sessed some  of  the  accompanying  description ;  it 
was  by  him  recommended  to  our  present  Sov- 
ereign [George  the  Fourth],  as  also  to  his  own 
beloved  and  illustrious  Daughters;  it  has  been 
by  them  constantly  used,  and  their  example  has 
diffused  it  throughout  the  British  Empire."  On 
lifting  the  cover  of  the  pot  containing  the  Late 
King's  Eye  Water  (which  he  recommended  to 
his  eldest  son)  we  find  it  to  contain  "Benevo- 
lence"; but  a  certain  poem  by  Moore,  addressed 
to  George  IV  after  the  death  of  Sheridan,  would 
suggest  that  the  collyrium  was  not  at  any  rate 
"constantly"  used. 


ri72T 


THACKERAY'S  SCHOOLFELLOW 

IF  the  measure  of  an  artist  is  the  accuracy 
with  which  the  life  of  his  times  is  reflected 
in  his  work,  and  the  width  of  his  range,  then 
John  Leech,  the  centenary  of  whose  birth  was 
August  29,  1917,  is  the  greatest  artist  that 
England  has  produced.  But  since  such  a 
claim  as  that  would  submerge  us  in  controversial 
waters,  let  it  rather  be  said  that  Leech  is  the 
most  representative  artist  that  England  has 
produced.  The  circumstances  that  he  worked 
in  black  and  white  and  was  chiefly  concerned 
with  the  humorous  aspect  of  men  and  manners 
do  not  aifect  the  position. 

The  outlines  of  Leech's  life  are  very  simple. 
He  was  born  in  London  on  August  29,  1817, 
the  son  of  John  Leech,  proprietor  of  the  once 
very  prosperous  London  Coff'ee-House  on  Lud- 
gate  Hill,  who  was  said  to  be  something  of  a 
draughtsman  and  was  also  a  Shakespeare  en- 
thusiast. The  child  took  early  to  the  pencil; 
and  it  is  recorded  that  Flaxman,  a  friend  of 
the  family,  found  him  at  a  tender  age,  on  his 
mother's  knee,  drawing  well  enough  to  be  en- 

[173] 


'Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

couraged.  The  great  sculptor's  advice  was  that 
the  boy,  whom  he  thought  to  be  clearly  destined 
for  an  artist,  should  be  permitted  to  follow 
his  own  bent.  Three  years  later  Flaxman 
seems  to  have  repeated  this  counsel.  At  seven. 
Leech  was  sent  to  school  at  Charterhouse,  then 
in  its  old  London  quarters ;  and  the  story  is 
told  that  Mrs.  Leech,  who  probably  thought 
seven  far  too  j'oung,  took  a  room  which  over- 
looked the  playground  in  order  secretly  to  watch 
her  little  son,  thus  displaying  a  sympathetic 
solicitude  which  that  son  inherited  and  carried 
through  life.  At  Charterhouse  Leech  remained 
until  he  was  sixteen,  among  his  school-fellows 
being  Thackeray;  but  as  Thackeray  was  six 
j^ears  his  senior  it  is  unlikely  that  they  saw 
much  of  each  other  as  boys,  although  they  were 
always  glad  later  in  life,  when  they  became 
very  intimate  colleagues  on  Punch,  to  recall 
their  schooldays  and  extol  their  school. 

On  leaving.  Leech  went  to  Bart.'s  to  learn  to 
be  a  surgeon,  and  there  by  curious  and  fortunate 
chance  fell  in  with  a  congenial  fellow-student 
named  Percival  Leigh,  whose  interest  in  comic 
journalism  was  to  play  a  very  important  part  in 
Leech's  career.  Leigh  had  two  friends  who 
shared  his  literary  tastes  and  ambitions — Albert 
Smith,  a  medical  student  at  the  Middlesex  Hos- 
pital, and  Gilbert  Abbott  a  Beckett,  a  young 
[174] 


John  Leech 

barrister,  these  forming  a  humorous  band  of 
brothers  to  which  Leech  made  a  very  welcome 
addition.  Leigh  was  seriously  concerned  also 
with  medicine,  but  there  is  no  evidence  that 
Leech  burnt  any  midnight  oil  in  its  pursuit,  al- 
though he  made  some  excellent  anatomical  draw- 
ings. The  popularity  of  the  London  Coffee- 
House  on  Ludgate  Hill  meanwhile  declining,  a 
less  expensive  instructor  than  St.  Bartholomew 
became  necessary;  and  Leech  was  placed  with 
the  ingenious  Mr.  Whittle  of  Hoxton,  who, 
under  the  guise  of  a  healer,  devoted  most  of  his 
attention  to  pigeons  and  boxing.  Mr.  Whittle 
of  Hoxton  (who  is  to  be  found  under  the  name 
of  Rawkins  in  Albert  Smith's  novel,  "The  Ad- 
ventures of  Mr.  Ledbury,"  which  Leech  illus- 
trated) may  not  appreciably  have  extended  his 
pupil's  knowledge  of  therapeutics,  but  he  is  our 
benefactor  in  quickening  his  interest  in  sport. 
Leech's  next  mentor  was  Dr.  John  Cockle,  son 
of  the  Cockle  of  the  pills;  and  then,  the  paternal 
purse  being  really  empty,  he,  at  the  age  of  eigh- 
teen, fliuig  physic  to  the  dogs  and  trusted  for  a 
living  to  his  pencil,  which,  since  Charterhouse 
had  the  most  indifferent  of  drawing-masters, 
was  still  untrained. 

In  those  days  there  were  many  ephemeral 
satirical  sheets,  in  addition  to  the  magazines, 
to    offer    employment   to    the   comic   draughts- 

[175] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

man^  and  Leech  did  not  starve;  his  two  ex- 
periences of  the  inside  of  a  sponging-house  be- 
ing due  to  his  good  nature  rather  than  to 
financial  foolishness  of  his  own.  His  first  pub- 
lication was  a  slender  collection  of  street  types 
entitled  "Etchings  and  Sketchings,"  by  A  Pen, 
1835.  He  tried  also  political  caricatures  and 
drew  bruisers  for  "Bell's  Life  in  London."  In 
1836  he  was  among  those  draughtsmen  (Thack- 
eray was  another)  who  competed  without  suc- 
cess for  Seymour's  post  as  illustrator  of  a  series 
of  humorous  papers  describing  the  proceedings 
of  the  Pickwick  Club.  In  1840  appeared  his 
parody  of  the  Mulready  envelope,  which  was 
very  popular  and  a  real  fovmdation-stone  for 
the  young  artist,  and  Percival  Leigh's  "Comic 
Latin  Grammar"  and  "Comic  English  Gram- 
mar,"  the  illustrations  to  which  fortified  the  im- 
pression which  the  Mulready  skit  had  made,  and 
established  the  fact  that  a  new  pictorial  hu- 
morist of  resource  and  vigour  had  appeared. 

In  1841  Punch  was  founded,  with  Mark 
Lemon  as  its  editor  and  Leigh  on  its  staff;  and 
for  Leech  to  join  up  was  merely  a  matter 
of  time.  His  first  efforts  were  tentative,  but 
by  1844,  when  Thackeray  was  also  a  power 
on  the  staff,  he  had  become  the  paper's  strong 
man,  and  its  strong  man  he  remained  until  his 
death  twenty  years  after.  Punch  had  a  great 
[176]    ' 


John  Leech 

personnel,  courage,  and  sound  ideas,  but  with- 
out Leech's  sunny  humanity  week  after  week 
it  is  unlikely  to  have  won  its  way  to  such  com- 
plete popularity  and  trust.  It  was  he,  more 
than  any  other  contributor,  who  drove  it  home 
to  the  heart  of  the  nation. 

Leech's  cartoons  were  for  the  most  part  sug- 
gested to  him,  the  outcome  of  discussion  round 
the  Mahogany  Tree  (which  is  made  of  pine)  ; 
but  to  a  larger  extent  probably  than  with  any  of 
his  colleagues  or  successors  the  social  drawings, 
by  which  he  is  now  best  known  and  by  which 
he  will  live,  were  the  fruits  of  his  own  observa- 
tion, visual  and  aural.  That  is  to  say,  he  pro- 
vided words  as  well  as  drawings.  He  also 
followed  the  line  of  least  resistance.  It  was 
enough  for  him  to  think  an  incident  funny,  to 
set  it  down,  and  by  the  time  it  had  passed 
through  that  filter — a  blend  of  humane  under- 
standing and  humane  fun — which  he  kept  in 
his  brain,  it  was  assured  of  a  welcome  by 
Punch's  readers  too.  To-day  the  paper  is  a 
little  more  exacting,  a  little  more  complex:  a 
consequence  possibly,  in  some  measure,  of  the 
fertility  and  universality  of  its  earlier  giant, 
who  anticipated  so  many  jokes.  To-day,  as  it 
happens,  there  is  more  of  the  Leech  spirit  in 
Life,  where  absurdity  for  its  own  sake  is  to  a 
greater  extent  cultivated.    But  for  twenty  years 

[177] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

that  spirit  permeated  and  dominated  Punch. 
Leech  had  a  great  chance  and  he  rose  to  it. 
Never  before  had  things  been  made  so  easy 
for  a  satirical  artist  with  alert  eyes.  Hogarth 
had  had  to  plan  and  struggle  to  get  his  engrav- 
ings before  the  public;  Gillray  and  Rowland- 
son  had  only  the  print-sellers  as  a  medium ;  but 
Leech  had  an  editor  who  appreciated  him  and 
gave  him  his  head,  and  employers  who  paid 
handsomely,  while  his  work  appeared  in  a  paper 
which  increased  its  circulation  with  every  num- 
ber. That  is  to  say,  he  knew  that  he  had  an 
audience:  no  small  incentive.  The  result  is 
that  "Pictures  of  Life  and  Character"  is  the 
completest  survey  of  the  social  England  of  his 
times  that  any  artist  has  ever  made  or  is  likely 
to  make. 

To-day  this  inexhaustible  work  in  three  im- 
mense volumes  is  out  of  print,  but  there  never 
was  a  book  that  better  deserved  continuous 
accessibility.  It  is  Leech's  momument,  and 
he  has  no  other.  One  learns  from  it,  while 
laughing  the  honestcst  of  laughter,  how  inveter- 
ate a  plagiarist  from  herself  is  Dame  Fashion. 
The  number  of  drawings  which  need  only  the 
slightest  modernizing  change  to  be  telling  now 
is  extraordinary.  Leech  missed  nothing;  and 
the  world  is  always  coming  full  circle. 

The  criticism  has  too  often  been  made  that 
[178] 


John  Leech 

Leech  could  not  draw.  Placed  beside  Keene  or 
Phil  May  he  is,  it  is  true,  wanting  in  in- 
evitableness ;  his  line  is  merely  efficient,  never 
splendid ;  yet  sometimes  he  could  draw  amaz- 
ingly and  get  the  very  breath  of  life  into  a 
figure.  In  particular  was  he  a  master  of  ges- 
ture, and  now  and  then  his  landscapes  are  a 
revelation.  But  the  resplendent  fact  is  that 
he  could  draw  well  enough;  he  did,  as  Thack- 
eray said,  what  he  wished  to  do;  that  is  proved 
by  his  triumph.  A  man  who  cannot  draw  does 
not  get  all  his  fellow-countrymen  following 
his  pencil  in  a  rapture  (as  though  it  were  the 
Pied  Piper's  whistle)  as  Leech  did  for  twenty 
years.  Du  Maurier,  who  admired  him  immensely, 
hit  on  a  happy  comparison  when  he  said  that 
Leech  was  "a  ballad-writer  among  draughts- 
men," or,  in  other  words,  he  had  simplicity, 
lucidity,  movement,  and  a  story.  It  has  to  be 
remembered,  too,  that  Leech  did  single-handed 
what  ever  since  his  day  it  has  needed  a  syn- 
dicate to  accomplish.  He,  himself  and  alone, 
was  cartoonist,  social  draughtsman,  low-life 
draughtsman,  and  the  provider  of  hunting 
scenes.  If  the  Volunteers  were  to  be  chaffed. 
Leech's  was  the  hand;  if  the  priceless  Mr. 
Briggs  was  to  be  invented  and  kept  busy,  Leech 
was  his  impresario.     And  it  was  he  also  who 

[179] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

drew  the  prettiest  girls  in  what  Thackeray 
called  "Mr.  Punch's  harem." 

All  his  life,  after  finding  himself.  Leech 
worked  too  hard,  being,  although  well  paid,  in 
some  mysterious  way  continually  either  in  debt 
or  about  to  be.  He  was  also  uniformly  behind 
time;  and  Mark  Lemon  used  humorously  to 
bemoan  half  his  days  misspent  in  cabs  be- 
tween the  Punch  office  and  the  artist's  various 
residences  collecting  his  belated  drawings. 
Leech,  however,  when  once  he  had  made  up  his 
mind,  drew  very  rapidly,  and  his  productive- 
ness was  amazing,  for  besides  his  Punch  work 
he  illustrated  a  large  number  of  books,  includ- 
ing (which  some  people  would  call  his  master- 
piece) the  sporting  novels  of  Surtees. 

In  private  life — but  all  his  life  was  private — 
Leech  was  not  less  simple  than  that  other  great 
Carthusian,  Colonel  Newcome.  He  loved  his 
family,  rode  his  horse  Red  Mullet  whenever 
there  was  a  free  moment,  and  as  often  as  pos- 
sible had  a  day's  run  with  the  Puckeridge 
hounds,  not  only  for  enjoyment,  but  in  order 
that  that  very  important  section  of  his  work,  his 
hunting  scenes,  might  not  languish.  He  was 
fond  of  dinner  parties,  both  as  host  and  guest, 
and  after  them  preferred  conversation  to  cards. 
He  sang  lugubrious  songs  in  a  deep,  melancholy 
voice,  with  his  eyes  fixed  upwards — the  favourite 
[180] 


John  Leech 

being  Barry  Cornwall's  "King  Death,"  the 
words  of  which,  Dickens  averred,  were  in- 
scribed on  the  ceiling  in  mystic  characters  dis- 
cernible only  by  the  singer.  He  told  stories 
well,  but  the  record  of  good  things  said  by  him 
is  meagre,  and  his  letters  are  singularly  free 
from  humorous  passages.  Once,  however,  when 
a  liberty  had  been  taken  with  him  by  a  public 
man,  he  threatened  "to  dram  and  defend  him- 
self"; and  there  is  a  pleasant  story  of  his  re- 
tort to  some  rowdy  inebriated  men  in  Kensing- 
ton who  excused  themselves  by  saying  that  they 
were  Foresters:  "Then,  why  the  devil  don't 
you  go  to  the  forest  and  make  a  din  there?" 
Noise  was,  indeed,  his  bane.  He  had  double 
windows  in  his  house,  but  was  always  in  danger 
of  headaches  and  shattered  nerves  from  street 
sounds  and,  in  particular,  barrel  organs.  It  is 
even  said  that  street  music  led  to  his  early 
death;  but  that  probably  was  only  indirectly. 
He  died  of  overwork,  aged  forty-seven. 

Leech's  friends  were  devoted  to  him,  as  he  to 
them.  Thackeray  came  first,  and  indeed  once 
he  said  that  he  loved  him  more  than  any  man, 
although  on  another  occasion  it  was  FitzGerald 
and  Brookfield  whom  he  named.  Dickens  and 
Leech  were  friends  as  well  as  collaborators. 
It  is  to  Dean  Hole,  with  whom  Leech  took 
the  "Little  Tour  in  Ireland"  in   1858,  that  we 

[181] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

must  go  for  the  best  description  of  his  appear- 
ance— "A  slim^  elegant  figure,  over  six  feet 
in  height,  with  a  grand  liead  'on  which  nature 
had  written  Gentleman/  with  wonderful  genius 
in  his  ample  forehead ;  wonderful  penetration, 
observation,  humour  in  his  blue-grey  Irish  eyes, 
and  wonderful  sweetness  and  sympathy  and 
mirth  about  his  lips,  which  seemed  to  speak  in 
silence." 

Of  Leech's  genius  and  accomplishment  no  one 
has  written  better  than  Dr.  John  Brown  in 
"Horoe  Subsecivse,"  third  series.  Millais,  who 
coached  Leech  in  oil  painting  for  his  exhibition 
of  enlarged  scenes  from  the  career  of  Mr. 
Briggs,  also  was  his  close  friend;  while  Tre- 
lawny,  whom  Millais  painted,  claimed  to  have 
loved  Leech  next  only  to  Shelley.  Another 
artist  friend  was  W.  P.  Frith,  who  became  his 
biographer.  All  his  friends  testify  to  the  sweet- 
ness of  his  nature  and  the  purity  of  his  char- 
acter, while  the  two  great  novelists  of  his  day, 
writing  of  his  work — Dickens  of  his  "Rising 
Generation"  and  Thackeray  of  the  "Pictures  of 
Life  and  Character" — used  independently  the 
phrase  that  he  came  to  his  task  like  "a  gentle- 
man." In  those  days  gentlemen,  at  any  rate 
in  public  places,  were  less  uncommon  than  now; 
but  even  then  Leech  was  conspicuous. 

It  is  perhajis  with  Dickens  and  Thackeray 
[182] 


John  Leech 

that  be  will  be  most  closely  associated  by 
posterity.  He  stands  between  them  as  a  fel- 
low-Victorian colossus.  All  three  were  doing, 
in  different  ways,  the  same  work — that  is  to  say, 
they  were  selecting  and  fixing,  for  all  time, 
their  time;  and  all  three  were  distinguished  by 
that  remarkable  abundance  which  makes  the 
middle  years  of  the  last  century  so  astonishing 
to  us.  Dickens,  Thackeray,  Carlyle,  Macau- 
lay,  Ruskin,  Trollope,  Leech,  in  England; 
Dumas,  Balzac,  Hugo,  Dore,  in  France.  What 
rivulets  to-day  compared  with  those  floods ! 

Leech  died  prematurely  (in  his  father's  arms, 
while  a  children's  party  was  in  progress  in  his 
house)  on  October  29,  1864,  less  than  a  year 
after  Thackeray.  "How  happy,"  said  Miss 
Thackeray  (afterward  Lady  Ritchie),  "my 
father  will  be  to  meet  him !"  Punch's  tribute 
contained  this  sentence:  "Society,  whose  every 
phase  he  has  illustrated  with  a  truth  or  grace 
and  a  tenderness  heretofore  unknown  in  satiric 
art,  gladly  and  proudly  takes  charge  of  his 
fame."  No  words  to-day,  fifty-six  years  after, 
can  improve  on  it;  nor  has  in  the  interim  any 
greater  social  delineator  or  humaner  genius 
arisen. 


[183] 


IN  RE  PHYSIOGNOMY 

I.     Identification 

MANY  summers  ago  I  was  on  one  of  David 
MacBrayne's  steamers  on  the  way  to  a 
Scotch  island.  Among  the  few  passengers  was 
an  interesting  man  with  whom  I  fell  into  con- 
versation. He  was  vigorous^  bulky^  tall,  with  a 
pointed  grey  beard  and  a  mass  of  grey  hair 
under  a  Panama,  and  he  was  bound,  he  told 
me,  for  a  well-known  fishing-lodge,  whither  he 
went  every  August.  He  had  been  a  great  trav- 
eller and  knew  Persia  well;  he  had  also  been 
in  Parliament,  and  one  of  his  sons  was  in  the 
siege  of  Mafeking.  So  much  I  remember  of 
his  affairs;  but  his  name  I  did  not  learn.  We 
talked  much  about  books,  and  I  introduced  him 
to  Doughty's  "Arabia  Deserta." 

I  have  often  thought  of  him  since  and  won- 
dered who  he  was,  and  whenever  I  have  met 
fishermen  or  others  likely  to  be  acquainted  with 
this  attractive  and  outstanding  personality  I 
have  asked  about  him;  but  never  with  success. 
And  then  the  other  day  I  seemed  really  to  be 
[184] 


In  Re  Physiognomy 

on  the  track^  for  I  met  a  man  in  a  club  who 
also  has  the  annual  custom  of  spending  a  fort- 
night or  so  in  the  same  Scotch  island,  and  he 
claimed  to  know  every  one  who  has  ever  visited 
that  retired  spot. 

This  is  what  happened. 

"If  you're  so  old  an  islander  as  that/'  I  said, 
"you're  the  very  person  to  solve  the  problem 
that  I  have  carried  about  for  four  or  five  years. 
There's  a  man  who  fishes  regularly  up  there" — 
and  then  I  described  my  fellow-passenger. 
"Tell  me,"  I  said,  "who  he  is." 

He  considered,  knitting  his  brows. 

"You're  sure  you're  right  in  saying  he  is  un- 
usually tall.''"  he  inquired  at  last. 

"Absolutely,"  I  replied. 

"That's  a  pity,"  he  said,  "because  otherwise 
it  might  be  Sir  Gerald  Orpington.  Only  he's 
short.  Still,  he  was  in  Parliament  right  enough. 
But,  of  course,  if  it  was  a  tall  man  it's  not 
Orpington." 

He  considered  again. 

"You  say,"  he  remarked,  "that  he  had  been 
in  Persia.''  Now  old  Jack  Beresford  is  tall 
enough  and  has  plenty  of  hair,  but  I  swear  he's 
never  been  to  Persia,  and  of  course  he  hasn't  a 
son  at  all.     It's  very  odd.     Describe  him  again." 

I  described  my  man  again,  and  he  followed 
every  point  on  his  fingers. 

[185] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

"Well,"  he  said,  "I  could  have  sworn  I  knew 
every  man  who  ever  fished   at  Blank,  but  this 

fellow Oh,  wait  a  minute !     You  say  he  is 

tall  and  bulky  and  had  travelled.  Why,  it 
must  be  old  Carstairs.  And  yet  it  can't  be. 
Carstairs  was  never  married  and  was  never  in 
Parliament." 

He  pondered  again. 

Then  he  said,  "You're  sure  it  wasn't  a  clean- 
shaven bald  man  with  a  single  eyeglass?" 

"Quite,"  I  said. 

"Because,"  he  went  on,  'if  he  had  been,  it 
would  have  been  old  Peterson  to  the  life." 

"He  wasn't  bald  or  clean-shaven,"  I  said. 

"You're  sure  he  said  Blank?"  he  inquired 
after  another  interval  of  profound  thought. 

"Absolutely,"  I  replied. 

"Tell  me  again  what  he  was  like.  Tell  me 
exactly.  I  know  every  one  up  there;  I  must 
know  him." 

"He  was  a  vigorous,  bulky,  very  tall  man,"  I 
said,  "with  a  pointed  beard  and  a  mass  of  grey 
hair  under  a  Panama;  and  he  used  to  go  to 
Blank  every  August.  He  had  been  a  great 
traveller  and  knew  Persia;  he  had  been  in  Par- 
liament, and  one  of  his  sons  was  in  the  siege  of 
Mafeking." 

"I  don't  know  him,"  he  said. 
[186] 


In  Re  Physiognomy 

II.     Dr.  Sullivan 

It  had  been  decided  that  there  never  was 
such  a  resemblance  as  is  to  be  traced  betvpeen 
my  homely  features  and  those  of  a  visitor  to  the 
same  hotel  the  previous  year — Dr.  Sullivan  of 
Harley  Street.  This  had  become  an  established 
fact,  irrefutable  like  a  proposition  of  Euclid, 
and  one  of  my  new  friends,  and  a  friend  also  of 
the  Harley  Street  physician  who  had  so  satisfy- 
ingly  and  minutely  anticipated  my  countenance, 
made  it  the  staple  of  his  conversation.  "Isn't 
this  gentleman,"  he  would  say  to  this  and  that 
habitue  of  the  smoking-room  as  they  dropped  in 
from  the  neighbouring  farms  at  night,  "the 
very  image  of  Dr.  Sullivan  of  Harley  Street, 
who  was  here  last  year?"  And  they  would 
subject  my  physiognomy  to  a  searching  study 
and  agree  that  I  was.  Perhaps  the  nose — a 
little  bigger,  don't  you  think  ?  or  a  shade  of  dis- 
similarity between  the  chins  (he  having,  I  sup- 
pose, only  two,  confound  him!),  but,  taking  it 
all  around,  the  likeness  was  extraordinary. 

This  had  been  going  on  for  some  time,  until 
I  was  accustomed,  if  not  exactly  inured,  to 
it,  and  was  really  rather  looking  forward  to 
the  time  when,  on  returning  to  London,  I  could 
trump  up  a  sufficient  ailment  to  justify  me  in 
calling  upon  my  double  in   Harley  Street  and 

[187] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

scrutinising  him  with  my  own  eyes.  But  last 
night  my  friend  had  something  of  a  set-back, 
which  may  possibly,  by  deflecting  his  conversa- 
tion to  other  topics,  give  me  relief.     I  hope  so. 

It  happened  like  this.  We  were  as  usual 
sitting  in  the  smoking-room,  he  and  I,  when 
another  local  acquaintance  entered — one  who,  I 
gathered,  had  been  away  for  a  few  weeks  and 
whom  I  had  therefore  not  yet  seen,  and  who 
(for  this  was  the  really  important  thing  to 
my  friend)  consequently  had  not  yet  seen  me. 

In  course  of  time  the  inevitable  occurred. 
"Don't  you  think,"  my  friend  asked,  "that  this 
gentleman  is  the  very  image  of  Dr.  Sullivan  of 
Harley  Street,  who  was  here  last  summer?" 

"What  Dr.  Sullivan's  that?"  the  new-comer 
inquired. 

"Dr.  Sullivan  of  Harley  Street,  who  was  fish- 
ing here  last  summer.  Don't  you  remember 
him?     The  very  image  of  this  gentleman." 

"The  only  Dr.  Sullivan  I  know,"  replied  the 
new-comer,  "is  Dr.  Sullivan  of  Newcastle.  He's 
a  very  old  man  by  now.  A  very  learned  man  too. 
He  has  a  wonderful  private  museum.     He " 

"No,  no,  the  Dr.  Sullivan  I  mean  was  from 
Harley  Street — a  specialist — who  took  the 
Manor  fishing  last  summer  and  stayed  in  the 
hotel." 

"Dr.  Sullivan  of  Newcastle  is  a  very  old 
[188] 


In  Re  Physiognomy 

man — much  older  than  this  gentleman,"  replied 
the  stranger,  "and  not  a  bit  like  him.  He's  a 
most  interesting  personality.  He  is  the  great 
authority  on  the  South  Sea  Islanders.  You 
should  see  his  collection  of  Fiji  war  clubs." 

"But  that's  not  the  Dr.  Sullivan  I  mean. 
You  must  remember  him,"  said  my  impresario; 
"we  all  used  to  meet  evening  after  evening, 
just  as  we're  doing  now — Dr.  Sullivan  of  Har- 
ley  Street,  the  specialist,  a  clean-shaven  man, 
exactly  like  this  gentleman  here.  Every  one 
has  noticed  the  likeness." 

"Dr.  Sullivan  of  Newcastle  has  a  beard,"  said 
the  new-comer.  "And  he's  a  very  old  man  by 
now.  A  great  receptacle  of  miscellaneous  learn- 
ing. He  showed  me  once  his  collection  of  coins 
and  medals.  He's  got  coins  back  to  the  Roman 
Emperors  and  stories  about  every  one  of  them. 
His  collection " 

"Yes,  but " 

" — of  idols  is  amazing.  You  never  saw  such 
comic  figures  as  those  natives  worship.  There's 
nothing  he  doesn't  collect.  He's  got  a  mummy 
covered  with  blue  beads.  He's  got  skulls  from 
all  over  the  world,  showing  different  formations. 
It's  some  years " 

"Yes,  but " 

" — since   I   saw  him   last,   and   of   course   he 

may  be " 

[189] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 
"Yes,  but " 


" — dead.  But  if  not,  he's  a  man  worth 
knowing.  If  ever  you  go  to  Newcastle,  sir," — 
this  was  to  me, — "don't  forget  about  him.  But 
he  must  be  very  old  by  now.     He " 

At  this  point  I  finished  my  glass  and  slipped 
away  to  bed.  Consulting  the  mirror  as  I  un- 
dressed, I  smiled  at  the  reflection  that  con- 
fronted me.  "You  can  sleep  more  comfortably 
to-night,"  I  said,  "for  there  are  signs  that  you 
are  about  to  have  a  rest." 


[190] 


THE  WORLD'S  DESIRE 

READING  the  terms  of  the  agreement  which 
Charlie  Chaplin  refused  in  New  York 
early  in  I916  I  had  a  kind  of  nervous  collapse. 
For  we  English  are  not  so  accustomed  to  great 
sums  of  monej'  as  the  Americans  are.  Then  I 
bound  a  wet  towel  round  my  head  and  studied 
the  figures  as  dispassionately  as  it  is  possible  to 
study  figures  when  they  run  into  kings'  ran- 
soms. Charlie  was  offered  ten  thousand  dollars 
a  week  for  a  year:  which  came  then  to  £104,000 
and  is  now  (1920)  much  more.  He  was  offered 
one  hundred  thousand  dollars  as  a  bonus  for 
signing  the  agreement.  He  was  also  offered  50 
per  cent,  of  any  profits  made  by  his  films  after 
his  salary  had  been  paid.  But  it  did  not  satisfy 
him.      He  refused  it. 

Now  here  is  a  most  remarkable  state  of  affairs 
— that  the  popular  demand  for  laughter  is  such 
that  a  little  acrobatic  man  with  splay  feet  and 
a  funny  way  with  a  cigarette,  a  hat,  and  a  cane 
could  be  offered  and  could  repudiate  such  colos- 
sal wealth  as  that,  and  for  no  other  services 
than  to  clown  it  for  the  cinematoscope.     Nor  is 

[191] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

the  oddity  of  the  matter  decreased  by  the  re- 
flection that  these  figures  which  make  an  ordi- 
nary person  dizzy^  belonged  to  war-time.  Charlie 
Chaplin's  rise  to  affluence  and  power  coincided 
with  the  bloodiest  struggle  in  history. 

If  it  is  needful  for  so  many  people_tfl_hold 
their  sides,  Charlie's  career  is  justified.  He  is 
also  the  first  droll  to  conquer  the  whole  world. 
I  suppose  that  it  is  no  exaggeration  to  say  that 
at  any  moment  of  the  day  and  night — allowing 
for  divergences  of  time — it  would  be  safe  to 
maintain  that  ten  million  people  are  laughing  at 
the  Chaplin  antics  somewhere  or  other  on  this 
planet  of  ours.  For  wherever  there  is  a  town- 
ship of  more  than  two  thousand  inhabitants, 
there,  I  imagine,  is  a  cinema ;  and  wherever  there 
is  a  cinema  there  is  Charlie ;  not  always  quite 
up  to  date,  of  course,  for  managers  are  wily 
birds,  but  in  some  film,  even  though  an  ancient 
one.  Does  the  Funniest  Man  on  Earth,  as  he  is 
called,  I  should  like  to  know,  realise  what  a 
role  he  fills?  Does  he  stand  before  the  glass 
and  search  the  recesses  of  his  countenance — 
which  is  now  far  more  familiar  to  the  world 
than  any  other — and  marvel? 

Charlie,  by  the  way,  has  his  private  uses  too. 
During  a  recent  visit  from  a  young  friend,  I 
found  that  the  ordinary  gulf  that  is  fixed  be- 
tween a  boy  in  the  neighbourhood  of  ten  and  a 
[192]* 


The  World's  Desire 

man  in  the  neighbourhood  of  five  times  that  num- 
ber was  for  once  easily  bridgeable.  We  foimd 
common  ground^  and  very  wisely  stuck  to  it, 
in  the  circumstance  that  each  of  us  had  seen 
Charlie,  and,  by  great  good  fortune,  we  had 
each  seen  him  in  his  latest  sketch.  Whenever, 
therefore,  a  longueur  threatened,  I  had  but  to 
mention  another  aspect  of  Charlie's  genius,  and 
in  the  discussion  that  followed  all  was  well. 

That  Charlie  is  funny  is  beyond  question.  I 
will  swear  to  that.  His  humour  is  of  such  ele- 
jnental  variety  that  he  could,  and  probably  does, 
make  a  Tierra  del  Fuegan  or  a  Bushman  of 
Central  Australia  laugh  not  much  less  than  our 
sophistical  selves.  One  needs  no  civilised  cul- 
ture to  appreciate  the  fun  of  the  harlequinade, 
and  to  that  has  Charlie,  with  true  instinct,  re- 
turned. But  it  is  the  harlequinade  accelerated, 
intensified,  toned  up  for  the  exacting  taste  of  the 
great  and  growing  "picture"  public.  It  is  also 
farce  at  its  busiest,  most  furious.  Charlie 
brought  back  that  admirable  form  of  humour 
which  does  not  disdain  the  co-operation  of  fisti- 
cuffs, and  in  which,  by  way  of  variety,  one  man 
is  aimed  at,  and  another,  too  intrusive,  is  hit. 
However  long  the  world  may  last,  it  is  safe  to 
say  that  the  spectacle  of  one  man  receiving  a 
blow  meant  for  another  will  be  popular. 

What  strikes  one  quickly  is  the  realisation  of 

[193] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

how  much  harder  Charlie  works  than  many  of 
the  more  illustrious  filmers.  He  is  rarely  out 
of  the  picture,  he  is  rarely  still,  and  he  gives 
full  measure.  There  is  no  physical  indignitj' 
that  he  does  not  suffer — and  inflict.  Such  im- 
partiality is  rare  in  drama,  where  usually  men 
are  either  on  top  or  underneath.  In  the  ordinary 
way  our  pet  comedians  must  be  on  tnp  and  un- 
touched. Even  the  clown,  though  he  receives 
punishment  en  route,  eventually  triumphs.  But 
Charlie  seldom  wins.  He  remains  a  butt,  or,  at 
any  rate,  a  victim  of  circumstances  whom  noth- 
ing can  discourage  or  deter.  His  very  essence 
is  resiliency  under  difficulties,  an  unabashed  and 
undefeatable  front.  His  especial  fascination  to 
me  is  that  life  finds  him  always  ready  for  it — 
not  because  he  is  armed  by  sagacity,  but  be- 
cause he  is  even  better  armed  by  folly.  He  \^ 
first  cousin  to  the  village  idiot,  a  natural  child 
of  nonsense,  licensed  up  to  the  hilt,  and  (like 
Antaeus)  every  time  he  rises  from  a  knockdown 
blow  he  is  the  stronger. 

It  is  a  proof  of  the  charter  which  the  world 
has  handed  to  this  irresistible  humourist  that  he 
has  been  permitted  to  introduce  such  an  innova- 
tion in  stage  manners  as  the  hitting  of  women. 
We  only  laugh  the  more  when,  having  had  bis 
ears  boxed  by  the  fair,  he  retaliates  with  double 
strength.  And  there  is  one  of  his  plays  in 
[194] 


The  World's  Desire 

which  every  audience  becomes  practically  help- 
less, as  after,  with  great  difficulty,  extricating  a 
lady  in  evening  dress  from  a  foiiataiffj^h? 
liberately  pushes  her  in  agaifiT     It  required  a 
Charlie  Chaplin  to  make  this  tolerable ;  but  such         ^  V 

^^v     .w -      ^ 

quite  legitimate  fun.  '*^  ^ 

One  of  the  chief  causes — after  the  personality  ^sj 

of   the   protagonist — of   the   popularity    of   the  \  • 

Chaplin  films  is  probably  that  in  them  certain 
things  happen  which  cannot  happen  in  real  life 
without  the  intervention  of  the  law,  and  which 
are  almost  always  withheld  from  the  real  stage. 
I  mean  that  men  so  freely  assault  each  other; 
physical  violence  has  the  fullest  and  most  abun- 
dant play.  Every  one  longs  to  see  kicks  and 
blows  administered,  but  is  usually  defrauded, 
and  Charlie  is  a  spendthrift  with  both.  And  so 
cheerfully  and  victoriously  does  he  distribute 
them  that  I  wonder  an  epidemic  of  such  atten- 
tions has  not  broken  out  in  both  hemispheres.  I 
know  this — ^that  a  fat  policeman  with  his  back 
towards  the  exit  of  a  cinema  at  the  time  a 
Chaplin  film  had  ended  would  be  in  great  danger 
from  my  foot  were  I  then  leaving.  I  should 
hope  for  enough  self-control ;  but  I  could  prom- 
ise nothing,  and  I  should  feel  that  Charlie's 
example,  behind  the  action,  sanctified  it.  Film 
life  and  real  life  would  merge  into  each  other 

[195] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

so  naturally  that  if  the  policeman  repaid  me — 
or  attempted  to — in  any  other  way  but  kind,  I 
should  feel  outraged.  To  be  arrested  for  it 
would  be  like  a  stab  in  the  back  from  a  friend. 
How  long  Charlie  will  remain  the  darling  of 
two  hemispheres  we  must  wait  to  see.  But  of 
one  thing  I  am  certain,  and  that  is  that  if  at  any 
time  the  "The  Funniest  Man  on  Earth"  ceases  to 
compel  laughter,  he  might  by  slightly  changing 
his  methods  draw  tears.  For  while  he  can  be 
as  diverting  as  the  greatest  glutton  for  mirth 
desires,  he  has  all  the  machinery  of  dejection 
too.  One  of  his  melancholy  smiles  is  really 
beautiful. 


[196] 


A  CONQUEROR 

IT  is  proverbial  that  a  child  may  lead  a 
horse  to  the  water,  but  that  not  even  Mr. 
Lloyd  George,  with  all  his  persuasive  gifts, 
can  make  him  drink.  An  even  more  difficult 
task  is  to  induce  a  horse  in  the  pink  of  robust 
health  to  convey  a  suggestion  of  being  seriously 
ill — as  I  chance  just  to  have  discovered.  It  is 
not  the  kind  of  discovery  that  one  can  anticipate ; 
indeed,  when  I  woke  on  the  morning  of  the  day 
on  which  it  happened  and,  as  is  my  habit,  lay 
for  a  while  forecasting  the  possible  or  probable 
course  of  events  during  the  next  four-and- 
tM'enty  hours,  this  example  of  equine  limitation 
had  no  place  whatever  in  my  thoughts.  To  the 
receptive  and  adventurous  observer  many  curi- 
ous things  may,  however,  occur;  and  no  sooner 
was  lunch  finished  than  out  of  a  clear  sky 
fell  a  friend  and  a  taxi  (the  god  and  the  ma- 
chine, if  you  will),  and  jointly  they  conveyed  me 
to  as  odd  a  building  as  I  have  ever  thought  to 
find  any  horse  in,  where,  under  a  too  search- 
ing blue  glare,  was  an  assemblage  of  people  as 
strange  as  their  environment. 

[197] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

There  were  men  in  evening  dress,  toying 
with  cigarettes  and  bending  over  women  in 
evening  dress;  tlicre  was  an  adventuress  or  two, 
one  with  hair  in  such  fluffed-out  abundance  as 
can  only  be  a  perquisite  of  notable  wickedness ; 
there  was  a  stockman,  who  was,  I  fancy,  too 
fond  of  her;  there  was  a  lady  in  riding  boots; 
there  was  a  comely  youth  in  pyj  amas ;  and  there 
were  footmen  and  page-boys.  And  all  seemed 
to  me  made-up  to  a  point  of  excess.  Who  could 
they  be?  a  stranger  to  the  marvel  of  science 
might  well  ask.  Strayed  revellers  ?  A  lost 
party  of  masqueraders  being  held  here  on  bail 
and  photographed  for  identification  purposes .'' — 
for  there  was  no  doubt  about  the  photography, 
because  the  benignant,  masterful  gentleman  with 
a  manuscript,  who  gave  them  instructions,  every 
now  and  then  stood  aside  in  order  that  the 
camera-operator  might  direct  his  machine-gun 
and  turn  the  handle ;  but  what  was  said  I  could 
not  hear,  such  was  the  crackling  and  fizzling  of 
the  blue  lights. 

I  cannot  pretend  to  have  learned  much  about 
the  cinema  on  such  a  brief  visit,  but  I  acquired 
a  few  facts.  One  is  that  there  is  no  need  for 
any  continuity  to  be  observed  by  the  photog- 
rapher, because  the  various  scenes,  taken  in  any 
order,  can,  in  some  wonderful  way,  be  joined 
up  afterwards,  in  their  true  order,  and  made 
[198] 


A  Conqueror 

consecutive  and  natural.  Indeed,  I  should  say 
that  the  superficially  casual  and  piecemeal  man- 
ner in  which  a  moving  drama  can  be  built  up 
is  the  dominant  impression  which  I  brought 
away  from  this  abode  of  mystery.  The  contrast 
between  the  magically  fluid  narrative  as  un- 
reeled on  the  screen  and  the  broken,  zigzag, 
and  apparently  negligent  preparation  of  it  in 
the  studio  is  the  sharpest  I  can  imagine.  And 
it  increases  one's  admiration  of  the  man  with 
the  scissors  and  the  thread  (or  however  it  is 
done)  who  unites  the  bits  and  makes  them 
smoothly  run. 

Another  fact  which  I  acquired  is  that  unless 
the  face  of  the  cinema  performer  is  painted 
yellow  it  comes  out  an  impossible  hue,  so  that 
to  see  a  company  in  broad  daylight  is  to  have 
the  impression  that  one  has  stumbled  upon  a 
house  party  in  the  Canary  Isles.  And  a  third 
fact  is  that  the  actors,  while  free  to  say  what 
they  like  to  each  other  at  many  times,  must, 
when  in  a  situation  illustrated  by  words  thrown 
on  the  screen,  use  those  identical  words.  One 
reason  for  this  rule  is,  I  am  told,  that  some  time 
ago,  in  an  American  film,  the  producer  of  which 
was  rather  lax,  one  of  the  characters  spoke  to 
another  with  an  impossible  licence,  and  a  school 
of  deaf  mutes  visiting  the  picture  palace  "lip- 
read"     the     awful     result.       The     consequence 

[199] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

(America  being  a  wonderful  country,  with  a 
sufficiency  of  deaf-and-dumb  to  warrant  pro- 
tective measures)  M'as  the  withdrawal  of  the  film 
and  the  punishment  of  the  offenders. 

Meanwhile^  what  of  the  horse?  I  will  tell 
you. 

The  camera-operator  having  taken  as  much  of 
the  fast  life  in  the  swell  hotel  (with  the  hol- 
low columns  without  backs  to  them)  as  was  nec- 
essary, including  a  "still"  (as  it  is  called  in 
the  movie  world — meaning  a  photograph  in  the 
ordinary  sense  of  the  term)  of  the  fluffiest  of 
the  adventuresses  in  an  expression  signifying 
a  blend  of  depravity  and  triumph,  turned  his  at- 
tention to  the  loose-box  which  some  attendants 
had  been  rapidly  constructing,  chiefly  with  the 
assistance  of  a  truss  of  straw.  Into  this  apart- 
ment was  led  (through  the  hotel  lounge,  and  at 
enormous  risk  to  its  plaster  masonry)  a  horse — ■ 
the  horse,  in  fact,  which  was  to  defeat  Edison. 
Of  the  plot  of  the  play  I  know  nothing.  (How 
could  I,  having  seen  it  in  prei^aration.'')  But 
this  I  can  tell  you:  that  the  hero's  horse  had  to 
be  ill ;  and  this  also :  that  the  horse  in  question 
refused  to  be  ill.  In  vain  for  the  groom  to 
shake  his  head,  in  vain  for  the  hero  to  say  that 
it  had  the  shivers;  never  was  a  horse  so  far 
removed  from  malady,  so  little  in  need  of  the 
vet.  Nor  could  any  device  produce  the  desired 
[200] 


A  Conqueror 

effect*.  If  J  then,  in  the  days  to  come  you  see  on 
the  films  a  very  attractive  story  with  a  horse  in 
it,  and  the  horse  shivers  only  in  the  words  on 
the  screen,  you  will  know  why.  It  is  because 
the  movies  for  once  met  their  master. 


[201] 


THE  NEWNESS  OF  THE  OLD 

IN  an  American  paper  I  find  tliis  anecdote: 
"An  old  lady  was  being  shown  the  spot  on 
which  a  hero  fell.     'I  don't  wonder/  she  replied. 
'It's  so  slipperj'  I  nearly  fell  there  myself.'  " 

Now  that  story,  which  is  very  old  in  England, 
and  is  familiar  here  to  most  adult  persons,  is 
usually  told  of  Nelson  and  the  Victory.  Indeed 
it  is  such  a  commonplace  with  facetious  visitors 
to  that  vessel  that  the  wiser  of  the  guides  are  at 
pains  to  get  in  with  it  first.  But  in  America  it 
may  be  fresh  and  beginning  a  new  lease  of  life; 
it  will  probably  go  on  forever  in  all  English- 
speaking  countries,  on  each  occasion  of  its  recru- 
descence finding  a  few  people  to  whom  it  is  new. 

It  is  a  problem  why  we  tend  to  be  so  resentful 
when  an  editor  or  a  comedian  offers  us  a  jest  that 
has  done  service  before.  It  is,  I  suppose,  in 
part  at  any  rate,  because  we  have  paid  our 
money,  either  for  the  paper  or  the  seat,  and  we 
experience  the  sense  of  having  been  defrauded. 
We  have  been  done,  we  feel,  because  the  bar- 
gain, as  we  understood  it,  was  that  we  were 
purchasing  novelty.  So  that  when  suddenly  an 
old,  old  jape,  which  perhaps  we  have  ourselves 
related — and  that  of  course  is  an  aggravation  of 
[202] 


The  Newness  of  the  Old 

the  grievance — confronts  us,  we  are  indignant. 
But  what,  one  wonders,  would  a  comic  paper  or 
a  revue  that  had  nothing  old  in  it  be  like.  We 
can  never  know. 

The  odd  thing  is  that  we  not  only  resent  the 
age  of  the  joke,  even  though  it  is  in  our  own 
repertory,  but  we  resent  the  laughter  of  those 
to  whom  it  is  new — perhaps  three-quarters  of 
the  audience.  How  dare  they  also  not  have 
heard  it  before?  is  our  unspoken  question. 
Not  long  ago,  seated  in  a  theatre  next  a  candid 
and  normally  benignant  and  tolerant  friend,  I 
found  myself  laughing  at  what  struck  me  as  a 
distinctly  humorous  remark  made  by  one  of 
London's  nonsensical  funny  men.  Engaged  in 
a  competition  with  another  as  to  which  had  the 
longer  memory,  he  clinched  the  discussion  by 
saying  that  he  personally  could  remember  Lon- 
don Bridge  when  it  was  a  cornfield.  To  me 
that  was  as  new  as  it  was  idiotic,  and  I  behaved 
accordingly ;  but  my  friend  was  furious  with  me. 
"Good  heavens !"  he  exclaimed  with  the  click  of 
the  tongue  that  usually  accompanies  such  criti- 
cism, "fancy  digging  that  up  again !  It's  as 
old  as  the  hills."  And  his  face  grew  dark 
and  stern. 

What  we  have  to  remember,  and  what  might 
have  softened  my  friend's  granite  anger  had  he 
remembered  it,  is  that  a  new  audience  is  always 

[203] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

coming  along  to  whom  nothing  is  a  chestnut.  It 
is  not  the  most  reassuring  of  thoughts  to  those 
who  are  a  little  fastidious  about  ancientry  in 
humour;  but  it  is  nature  and  therefore  a  fact. 
Just  as  every  moment  (so  I  used  to  be  told  by 
a  solemn  nurse)  a  child  is  born  (she  added  also 
that  every  moment  some  one  dies,  and  she  used 
to  hold  up  her  finger  and  hush !  for  me  to 
realise  that  happy  thought),  so  nearly  every  mo- 
ment (allowing  for  a  certain  amount  of  infant 
mortality)  an  older  child  attains  an  age  when  it 
can  understand  and  relish  a  funny  story.  To 
those  children  every  story  is  original.  With  this 
new  public,  clamorous  and  appreciative,  why  do 
humourists  try  so  hard  to  be  novel.''  (But  per- 
haps they  don't). 

I  suppose  that  there  are  theories  as  to  what 
is  the  oldest  story,  but  I  am  not  acquainted  with 
them.  That  people  are,  however,  quite  prepared 
for  every  story  to  be  old  is  proved  by  the  readi- 
ness with  which,  when  ISIark  Twain's  "Jumping 
Frog"  was  translated  into  Greek  for  a  School 
Reader,  a  number  of  persons  remarked  upon  the 
circumstance  that  the  humourist  had  gone  to 
ancient  literature  for  his  jest.  For  by  a  curious 
twist  we  are  all  anxious  that  stories  should  not 
be  new.  Much  as  we  like  a  new  story,  we  like 
better  to  be  able  to  say  that  to  us  it  was 
familiar. 
[204] 


The  Newness  of  the  Old 

Many  stories  come  rhythmically  round  again. 
Such,  for  example,  during  the  Great  War,  as 
those  with  a  martial  background.  I  remember 
during  the  Boer  War  hearing  of  a  young  man 
who  was  endeavouring  to  enlist,  and  was  rejected 
because  his  teeth  were  defective.  "But  I  want 
to  fight  the  Boers,"  he  said,  "not  eat  them." 
Between  1914  and  1918  this  excellent  retort 
turned  up  again,  only  this  time  the  young  man 
said  that  he  did  not  want  to  eat  the  Germans. 
I  have  no  doubt  that  in  the  Crimean  AVar  a 
similar  applicant  declared  that  he  did  not  want 
to  eat  the  Russians,  and  a  hundred  years  ago 
another  was  vowing  that  he  did  not  want  to  eat 
the  French.  Probably  one  could  trace  it  through 
every  war  that  ever  was.  Probably  a  young 
Hittite  with  indifferent  teeth  proclaimed  that  his 
desire  was  to  fight  the  Amalekites  and  not  to  eat 
them.  The  story  was  equally  good  each  time; 
and  there  has  always  been  a  vast  new  audience 
for  it.  And  so  long  as  war  continues  and  teeth 
exist  in  the  human  head,  which  I  am  told  will  not 
be  for  ever,  so  long  will  this  anecdote  enjoy 
popularity.  After  that  it  will  enter  upon  a 
new  phase  of  existence  based  upon  defects  in 
the  applicant's  ratelier,  and  so  on  until  uni- 
versal peace  descends  upon  the  world,  or,  the 
sun  turning  cold,  life  ceases. 

[205] 


AUNTS 

THE  story  is  told  that  an  English  soldier, 
questioned  as  to  his  belief  in  the  angels  of 
Mons,  replied  how  could  he  doubt  it,  when  they 
came  so  close  to  him  that  he  recognised  his  aunt 
among  them?  People,  hearing  this,  laugh;  but 
had  the  soldier  said  that  among  the  heavenly 
visitants  he  had  recognised  his  mother  or  his 
sister,  it  would  not  be  funny  at  all.  Suggestions 
of  beautiful  affection  and  touching  deathbedsi 
would  then  have  been  evoked,  and  our  sentimen- 
tal chords  played  upon.  But  the  word  aunt  at 
once  turns  it  all  to  comedy.     VTliy  is  this  ? 

I  cannot  answer  this  question.  The  reasons 
go  back  too  far  for  me ;  but  the  fact  remains 
that  it  has  been  decided  that  when  not  tragic, 
and  even  sometimes  when  tragic,  aunts  are 
comic.  Not  so  comic  as  mothers-in-law,  of 
course;  not  invariably  and  irremediably  comic; 
but  provocative  of  mirth  and  irreverence.  Again 
I  say,  why  ?  For  taken  one  by  one,  aunts  are 
sensible,  affectionate  creatures ;  and  our  own  ex- 
perience of  them  is  usually  serious  enough ;  they 
are  often  very  like  their  sisters  our  mothers,  or 
[206] 


T  Aunts 

J 

their  brothers  our  fathers^  and  often^  too,  they 
are  mothers  themselves.  Yet  the  status  of  aunt 
is  always  fair  game  to  the  humourist;  and  es- 
pecially so  when  she  is  the  aunt  of  somebody 
else. 

That  the  word  uncle  has  frivolous  associations 
is  natural,  for  slang  has  employed  it  to  comic 
ends.  But  an  aunt  advances  nothing  on  personal 
property,  an  aunt  is  not  the  public  resort  of  the 
temporarily  financially  embarrassed.  No  nephew 
Tommy  was  ever  exhorted  to  make  room  for  his 
aunt,  a  lady,  indeed,  who  figures  in  comic  songs 
far  more  rarely  than  grandparents  do,  and  is 
not  prominent  on  the  farcical  stage.  One  can- 
not, therefore,  blame  the  dramatists  for  the 
great  aunt  joke,  nor  does  it  seem,  on  recalling 
what  novels  I  can  with  aunts  prominently  in 
them,  to  be  the  creation  of  the  novelists.  Dick- 
ens has  very  few  aunts,  and  these  are  not  no- 
torious. Betsy  Trotwood,  David  Copperfield's 
aunt,  though  brusque  and  eccentric,  was  other- 
wise eminently  sane  and  practical.  Mr.  F.'s 
aunt  was  more  according  to  pattern  and  Miss 
Rachel  Wardle  even  more  so ;  but  the  comic  aunt 
idea  did  not  commend  itself  to  Dickens  whole- 
heartedly. Fiction  as  a  rule  has  supported  the 
theory  that  aunts  are  sinister.  Usually  they 
adopt  the  children  of  their  dead  sisters  and  are 
merciless  to  them.     Often  they  tyrannise  over 

[207] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

a  household.  The  weight  of  the  novelists  is  in 
favour  of  aunts  as  anything  but  comic.  There 
are  exceptions,  of  course,  and  that  fine  vivid 
figure,  the  "Aunt  Anne"  of  Mrs.  W.  K.  Clif- 
ford, stands  forth  triumphant  among  the  charm- 
ing; while  Sir  Willoughby  Patterne's  twittering 
choruses  are  nearer  the  aunts  of  daily  life.  But 
even  they  were  nigher  pathos  than  ridicule. 

I  believe  that  that  wicked  military  wag.  Cap- 
tain Harry  Graham,  has  done  more  than  most  to 
keep  the  poor  lady  the  aunt  in  the  pillory.  This 
kind  of  thing  from  his  "Ruthless  Rhymes  for 
Heartless  Homes"  does  a  lot  of  mischief: 

In  the  drinking  well, 
Which  the  plumber  built  her, 
Aunt   Eliza    fell— 
We  must  buy  a  filter. 

How  can  aunts  possibly  survive  such  subtle  at- 
tacks as  that?     And  again: — 

I  had  written  to  Aunt  Maud, 

Who  was  travelling  abroad. 

When  I  heard  she'd  died  from  cramp: 

Just  too  late  to  save  the  stamp. 

Supposing  that  the  verse  had  begun 
I  had  written  Cousin  Maud 

it  would  have  lost  enormously.     There  must  be 
something  comic  in  aunts  after  all. 
[208] 


Aunts 

No  child  ever  quite  gets  over  the  feeling  of 
strangeness  at  hearing  his  mother  called  aunt 
by  his  cousins.  A  mother  is  so  completely  his 
own  possession^  and  she  so  obviously  exists  for 
no  other  purpose  than  to  be  his  mother,  that  for 
her  also  to  be  an  aunt  is  preposterous.  And 
then  there  is  the  shock  of  hearing  her  name,  for 
most  children  never  realise  their  mother's  name 
at  all,  their  father,  the  only  person  in  the  house 
who  knows  it  intimately  and  has  the  right  to 
use  it,  usually  preferring  "Hi"  or  any  loud  cry. 
To  Hamlet  the  situation  must  have  been  pecu- 
liarly strange,  for  his  mother,  after  the  little 
trouble  with  his  father's  ear,  became  his  aunt 
too.  If  it  were  not  that,  since  our  aunts  are  of 
an  older  generation  than  ourselves,  proper  re- 
spect compels  us  to  address  them  as  aunts,  they 
would  not  be  comic.  The  prefix  aunt  does  it. 
If  we  could  call  Aunt  Eliza,  Eliza,  without  cere- 
mony, as  if  she  were  a  contemporary,  she  would 
be  no  more  joke  to  us  than  to  her  contempo- 
raries, even  though  she  did  fall  in  the  well  and 
necessitate  that  sanitary  outlay.  Just  plain 
Eliza  falling  in  a  well  is  nothing ;  but  for  Aunt 
Eliza  to  do  so  is  a  scream.  It  is  having  to  say 
Aunt  Eliza  that  causes  the  trouble,  for  it  takes 
her  from  the  realms  of  fact  and  deposits  her  in 
those  of  humour.  If  aunts  really  want  to  ac- 
quire a  new  character  they  must  forbid  the 
prefix.  [209] 


ON  RECITATIONS 

ALTHOUGH  none  of  us  know  what,  when 
the  time  comes,  we  can  do,  to  what  unsus- 
pected heights  we  can  rise,  we  are  fairly  well 
acquainted  with  what  we  cannot  do.  We  may 
not  know,  for  example,  what  kind  of  figure  we 
should  cut  in  a  burning  house,  and  even  less 
in  a  burning  ship:  to  what  extent  the  sudden- 
ness and  dreadfulness  of  the  danger  would 
paralyse  our  best  impulses,  or  even  so  bring  out 
our  worst  as  to  make  us  wild  beasts  for  self -pro- 
tection. Terrible  emotional  emergencies  are 
rare,  and,  since  rehearsals  are  of  no  use,  all  that 
is  possible  is  to  hope  that  one  would  behave 
rightly  in  them.  But  most  of  us  know  with  cer- 
tainty what  our  limitations  are.  I,  for  instance, 
know  that  I  cannot  recite  in  public  and  that  no 
circumstances  could  make  me.  There  is  no  peril 
I  would  not  more  cheerfully  face  than  an  audi- 
ence, even  of  friends,  met  together  to  hear  me, 
and,  worse,  see  me,  on  such  an  occasion.  And 
by  recite  I  do  not  mean  the  placid  repetition  of 
an  epigram,  but  the  downright  translation  of 
dramatic  verse  into  gesture  and  grimace.  The 
[210] 


On  Recitations 

bare  idea  of  such  a  performance  fills  me  with 
creeping  terror. 

The  spectacle  of  any  real  reciter,  however 
self-possessed  and  decent,  at  his  work,  suffuses 
me  with  shame.  I  myself  have  in  my  brief  ex- 
perience of  them  blushed  more  for  reciters  than 
the  whole  army  of  them  could  ever  have  blushed 
for  themselves.  Even  the  great  humane  Bran- 
dram  when  he  adojDted  the  falsetto  which  he 
deemed  appropriate  to  Shakespeare's  women 
sent  the  hot  tide  of  misery  to  my  face,  while 
over  his  squeaking  in  "Boots  at  the  Holly  Tree 
Inn"  I  had  to  close  my  eyes.  Brandram,  how- 
ever, was  not  strictly  a  reciter  in  the  way  that  I 
mean:  rather  was  he  an  actor  who  chose  to  do 
a  whole  play  by  himself  without  costumes  or 
scenery.  The  reciters  that  I  mean  are  addicted 
to  single  pieces,  and  are  often  amateurs  (unde- 
terred and  undismayed  by  the  grape-shot  of  Mr. 
Anstey's  "Burglar  Bill")  who  oblige  at  parties 
or  smoking  concerts.  Their  leading  poet  when  I 
was  younger  was  the  versatile  Dagonet,  who  had 
a  humble  but  terribly  effective  derivative  in  the 
late  Mr.  Eaton,  the  author  of  "The  Fireman's 
Wedding,"  and  their  leading  humourist  was  the 
writer  of  a  book  called  "T  Leaves."  Then  came 
"Kissing  Cup's  Race"  (which  Mr.  Lewis  Syd- 
ney on  the  stage  and  "Q"  in  literature  toiled  so 
manfully  to  render  impossible),  and  now  I  have 

[211] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

no  notion  what  the  favourite  recitations  are,  for 
I  have  heard  none  for  a  long  time. 

But  from  tliose  old  days  when  escape  was 
more  difficult  comes  the  memory  of  the  worst 
and  the  best  that  I  ever  heard.  The  worst  was 
"Papa's  Letter,"  a  popular  poem  of  sickly  and 
irresistible  sentimentality,  which  used  to  call 
cut  the  handkerchiefs  in  battalions.  The  nom- 
inal narrator  is  a  young  widow  whose  golden- 
!. aired  boy  wishes  to  join  her  in  writing  a  letter 
to  his  father.  This  was  at  a  time  before  Sir 
Oliver  Lodge  had  established  wireless  telephony 
between  heaven  and  earth.  Since  the  child  can- 
not write  slie  turns  him  into  a  letter  himself  by 
fancifully  sticking  a  stamp  on  his  forehead.  He 
then  (as  I  remember  it)  runs  out  to  play,  is 
knocked  down  by  a  nmaway  horse,  and — 

"Papa's  letter  is  with  God." 

Who  wrote  tliis  saccharine  tragedy  I  cannot  say, 
but  I  once  found  the  name  of  W.  S.  Gilbert 
against  it  on  a  programme.  Could  he  possibly 
have  been  the  author?  The  psychology  of  hu- 
mour is  so  curious.  .  .  . 

So  much  for  the  worst  recitations.  The  best 
that  I  can  recall  I  heard  twenty-iive  years  ago, 
and  have  only  just  succeeded  in  tracking  to 
print.  It  was  recited  at  a  Bohemian  gathering 
of  which  I  made  one  in  a  Fleet  Street  tavern, 
[212] 


On  Recitations 

the  reciter  being  a  huge  Scottish  painter  with  a 
FalstafEan  head.  His  face  was  red  and  trucu- 
lently jovial,  his  hair  and  beard  were  white  and 
vigorous.  I  had  never  seen  him  before,  nor  did 
I  see  him  after;  but  I  can  see  him  now,  through 
much  tobacco  smoke,  and  hear  him  too.  Called 
upon  to  oblige  the  company,  this  giant  un- 
folded himself  and  said  he  would  give  us  James 
Boswell's  real  opinion  of  Dr.  Johnson.  A  thrill 
of  expectation  ran  through  the  room,  for  it  ap- 
peared that  the  artist  was  famous  for  this  ef- 
fort. For  me,  who  knew  nothing,  the  title  was 
good  enough.  With  profundities  of  humour, 
such  as  it  is  almost  necessary  to  cross  the  bor- 
der to  find,  he  performed  the  piece;  sitting 
tipsily  on  the  side  of  an  imaginary  bed  as  he 
did  so.  Every  word  told,  and  at  the  end  the 
greatness  of  the  Great  Cham  was  a  myth.  For 
years  I  tried  to  find  this  poem;  but  no  one  could 
tell  me  anything  about  it.  Here  and  there  was 
a  man  who  had  heard  it,  but  as  to  authorship 
he  knew  nothing.  The  Scotsman  was  no  more, 
I  discovered.  Then  last  year  appeared  one  who 
actually  knew  the  author's  name:  Godfrey  Tur- 
ner, a  famous  Fleet  Street  figure  in  the  'sixties 
and  'seventies,  and  in  time  I  met  his  son,  and 
through  him  was  piloted  to  certain  humorous  an- 
thologies, in  one  of  which,  H.  S.  Leigh's  "Jeux 
d'Esprit,"  I  found  the  poem.     Like  many  of  the 

[2131 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

best  recitations,  it  do<"s  not  read  famously  in 
cold  blood,  but  as  delivered  by  my  Scottish 
painter  it  carried  big  guns.  Here  it  is;  but  there 
seems  to  be  an  error  in  the  beginning  of  the 
third  stanza,  unless  Bozzy's  muzziness  is  being 
indicated : — 

"Bid  the  ruddy  nectar   flow!" 
I  say,  old  fellow,  don't  you  go. 
You  know  me — Boswell — and  you  know 
I  wrote  a  life  of  Johnson. 

Punch  they've  here,  a  splendid  brew; 
Let's  order  up  a  bowl  for  two, 
And  then  I'll  tell  you  something  new 
Concerning   Doctor   Johnson. 

A  great  man   that,  and   no  mistake* 

To  ev'ry  subject  wide  awake; 

A  toughish  job  you'd  have,  to  make 

A  fool  of  Doctor  Johnson; 
But  everybody  worth  a  straw 
Has  got  some  little  kind  of  flaw 
(My  own's  a  tendency  to  jaw 

About  my  poor  friend  Johnson). 

And  even  that  immortal  man. 
When  he  to  speechify  began, 
No   greater  nuisance   could   be  than 

The  late  lamented  Johnson. 
Enough  he  was  to  drive  you  mad. 
Such  endless  Icngtli  of  tongue  he  had« 
Which  caused  in  me  a  habit  bad 

Of  cursing  Doctor  Johnson. 
[214] 


On  Hecitatlons 

We  once  were  at  the  famous  "Gate" 
In  Clerkenwell;  'twas  getting  late; 
Between  ourseh'es  I  ought  to  state 

That  Doctor  Samuel  Johnson 
Had  stowed  away  six  pints  of  port, 
The  strong,  full-bodied,  fruity  sort, 
And  I  had  had  my  whack — in  short 

As  much  as  Doctor  Johnson. 

Just  as  I'd  made  a  brilliant  joke 
The  doctor  gave  a  grunt  and  woke; 
He  looked  all  round,  and  then  he  spoke 
These  words,  did  Doctor  Johnson: 
"The  man  who'd  make  a  pun,"  said  he, 
"Would  perpetrate  a  larceny, 
And  punished  equally  should  be. 
Or  my  name  isn't  Johnson!" 

I  on  the  instant  did  reply 

To  that  old  humbug  (by  the  bye. 

You'll  understand,  of  course,  that  I 

Refer  to  Doctor  Johnson), 
"You've  made  the  same  remark  before. 
It's  perfect  bosh;  and,  what  is  more, 
I  look  on  you,  sir,  as  a  bore!" 

Says  I  to  Doctor  Johnson. 

My  much-respected  friend,  alas ! 
Was  only  flesh,  and  flesh  is  grass. 
At  certain  times  the  greatest  ass 

Alive  was  Doctor  Johnson. 
I  shan't  go  home  until  I  choose. 
Let's  all  lie  down  and  take  a  snooze. 
I  always  sleep  best  in  my  shoes. 

All  right!     I'm — Doctor  Johnson. 

[215] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

Good  as  that  piece  was  as  done  by  the  Scotch 
artist^  I  should  not  care  to  hear  it  again.  Nor, 
indeed,  do  I  want  to  hear  any  recitation  again, 
unless  it  is  given  in  mimicry  of  some  one  else. 
Under  those  conditions  I  could  listen  to  anything, 
so  powerful  is  the  attraction  of  the  mimic's  art. 
Possibly  part  of  this  fascination  may  be  due  to 
one's  own  inability  to  imitate  too;  be  that  as  it 
may,  no  mimic  who  is  at  all  capable  ever  bores 
me,  and  all  fill  me  with  wonder.  Of  course  I 
am  conscious  that  many  of  the  imitators  who 
throng  the  stage  are  nothing  but  i)ickpockets : 
too  lazy  and  too  mean  to  acquire  novelties  of 
their  own,  they  annex  snatches  of  the  best  songs 
of  the  moment  under  the  plea  of  burlesquing 
the  original  singers.  But  even  so,  I  often  find 
myself  immorally  glad  that  they  figure  in  the 
programme. 

Not  the  least  remarkable  thing  about  good 
mimics  is  their  capacity  not  only  to  reproduce 
the  tones  of  a  voice  but  the  actual  style  of  con- 
versation. I  remember  hearing  someone  thus 
qualified  giving  a  spontaneous  impression  of  a 
famous  scholar  whom  he  had  just  met,  and  the 
curious  part  of  it  was  that  the  imitator,  though 
a  man  of  little  education,  for  the  moment,  under 
the  influence  of  the  concentration  which  pos- 
sessed him,  employed  words  proper  to  his  victim 
which  I  am  certain  he  had  no  knowledge  of  in 
[216] 


On  Recitations 

cold  blood  and  had  never  used  before.  It  was 
almost  as  if,  for  a  brief  interval,  tlie  mimic  was 
the  scholar,  though  always  with  the  drop  of  ridi- 
cule or  mischief  added.  It  would  be  interesting 
to  know  if,  when  anyone  is  being  impersonated 
as  intensely  as  this,  any  virtue  departs  from  him 
— whether  he  is,  for  the  moment,  by  so  much  the 
less  himself. 


[217] 


CLICQUOT  WELL  WON 

MY  hostess  and  her  daughter  met  me  at  the 
station  in  the  little  pony-cart  and  we  set 
off  at  a  gentle  trot,  conversing  as  we  went.  That 
is  to  say,  they  asked  questions  about  London 
and  the  great  wicked  world,  and  I  endeavoured 
to  answer  them. 

It  was  high  if  premature  summer ;  the  sky  was 
blue,  the  hedges  and  the  grass  Avere  growing 
almost  audibly,  the  birds  sang,  the  sun  blazed, 
and,  to  lighten  the  burden,  I  walked  up  two  or 
three  hills  without  the  faintest  enthusiasm. 

Just  after  the  top  of  the  last  hill,  when  I  had 
again  resumed  my  seat  (at  the  risk  once  more  of 
lifting  the  pony  into  the  zenith),  the  ladies 
simultaneously  uttered  a  shrill  cry  of  dismay. 

"Look !"  they  exclaimed ;  "there's  Bunty !" 

I  looked,  and  beheld  in  the  road  before  us  a 
small  West  Highland  terrier,  as  white  as  a 
recent  ratting  foray  in  a  wet  ditch  would  allow. 

"Bunty!  Bunty!  you  wicked  dog!"  they 
cried;  "how  dare  you  go  hunting?" 

To  this  question  Bunty  made  no  other  reply 
than  to  subside  under  the  hedge,  where  a  little 
[218] 


Clicquot  Well  Won 

shade  was  to  be  had^  in  an  attitude  of  exhaustion 
tempered  by  wariness. 

"How  very  naughty!"  said  my  hostess.  "I 
left  her  in  the  house." 

"Yes/'  said  the  daughter,  "and  if  she's  going 
to  go  off  hunting  like  this  what  on  earth  shall  we 
do?  There'll  be  complaints  from  every  one. 
She's  never  done  it  before." 

"Come,  Bunty !"  said  my  hostess,  in  the 
wheedling  tones  of  dog-owners  whose  dogs 
notoriously  obey  their  slightest  word.  But 
Bunty  sat  tight. 

"If  we  drive  on  perhaps  she'll  follow,"  said 
the  daughter,  and  we  drove  on  a  few  yards;  but 
Bunty  did  not  move. 

We  stopped  again,  while  coaxing  noises  were 
made,  calculated  to  soften  the  hearts  of  rocks; 
but  Bunty  refused  to  stir. 

"She'll  come  on  later,"  I  suggested. 

"Oh,  no,"  said  her  elderly  mistress,  "we 
couldn't  risk  leaving  her  here,  when  she's  never 
gone  off  alone  before.  Bunty !  Bunty !  don't  be 
so  naughty.  Come  along,  there's  a  dear  little 
Bunty." 

But  Bunty  merely  glittered  at  us  through  her 
white-hair  entanglement  and  remained  perfectly 
still. 

Strange  dogs  are  not  much  in  my  line;  but 
since  my  hostess  was  no  longer  very  active,  and 

[219] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

tlie  daughter  was  driving,  and  no  one  else  was 
present,  there  seemed  to  be  a  certain  inevitable- 
ness  about  the  proposition  which  I  then  made 
that  I  should  get  out  and  bring  the  miscreant  in. 

"Oh,  would  you  mind  ?"  my  hostess  said.  "She 
Avon't  bite,  I  promise  you.  She's  a  perfect 
dear." 

Trying  hard  to  forget  how  painful  to  legs  or 
hands  can  be  the  smart  closing  of  the  snappy 
jaws  of  dogs  that  won't  bite,  I  advanced 
stealthily  towards  Bunty,  murmuring  ingratia- 
ting words. 

When  I  was  quite  close  she  turned  over  on  her 
back,  lifted  her  paws,  and  obviously  commended 
her  soul  to  Heaven;  and  I  had  therefore  no 
difficulty  in  lifting  her  up  and  carrying  her  to 
the  trap. 

Her  mistresses  received  her  with  rapture, 
disguised,  but  by  no  means  successfully,  by 
reproach  and  reproof,  and  we  were  beginning  to 
drive  on  again  when  an  excited  voice  called 
upon  us  to  stop,  and  a  strange  lady,  of  the  for- 
midable unmarried  kind,  with  a  very  red  face 
beneath  a  purple  parasol,  confronted  us. 

"What,"  she  panted,  "is  the  meaning  of  this 
outrage?     How  dare  you  steal  my  dog.''" 

"Your  dog,  madam  ?"  I  began. 

"It's  no  use  denying  it,"  she  burst  in,  "I  saw 
you  do  it.  I  saw  a^ou  pick  it  up  and  carry  it  to 
[220] 


Clicquot  Well  Won 

the  trap.  It's — it's  monstrous.  I  shall  go  to 
the  police  about  it." 

Meanwhile^  it  cannot  be  denied,  the  dog  was 
showing  signs  of  delight  and  recognition  such  as 
had  previously  been  lacking. 

"But "  began  my  hostess,  who  is  anything 

but  quarrelsome. 

"We  ought  to  know  our  own  dog  when  we  see 
it,"  said  the  daughter,  who  does  not  disdain  a 
fight. 

"Certainly,"  said  the  angry  lady,  "if  you  have 
a  dog  of  your  own." 

"Of  course  we  have,"  said  the  daughter;  "we 
have  a  West  Highland  named  Bunty." 

"This  happens  to  be  my  West  Highland, 
named  Wendy,"  said  the  lady,  "as  you  will  see 
if  you  look  on  the  collar.  My  name  is  there  too 
—Miss  Morrison,  14  Park  Terrace,  W.  I  am 
staying  at  Well  House  Farm." 

And  it  was  so. 

It  was  on  the  tip  of  my  tongue  to  point  out 
that  collars,  being  easily  exchangeable,  are  not 
evidence;  but  I  thought  it  better  that  any  such 
suggestion  should  come  from  elsewhere. 

"It  is  certainly  very  curious,"  said  the 
daughter,  submitting  the  features  of  the  dog  to 
the  minutest  scrutiny;  "if  it  is  not  Bunty  it  is 
her  absolute  double." 

"It  is   not   Bimty,   but  Wendy,"    said   INIiss 

[221] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

Morrison  coldly ;  "and  I  shall  be  glad  if  you  wiil 
give  her  to  me." 

"But "  the  daughter  began. 

"Yes,  give  the  lady  the  dog,"  said  the 
mother. 

In  the  regrettable  absence  of  Solomon,  who 
would,  of  course,  have  cut  the  little  devil  in  two, 
there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  surrender;  and 
the  couple  went  off  together,  the  dog  exhibiting 
every  sign  of  pleasure. 

Meanwhile  the  daughter  whipped  up  the 
pony,  and  we  soon  entered  the  gates. 

In  the  drive,  awaiting  us,  was  a  West  High- 
land terrier  named  Bunty, 

"There  I"  cried  the  ladies,  as  they  scrambled 
out  and  flung  themselves  on  her. 

"Of  course  she's  not  a  bit  like  that  Wendy 
thing  really,"  said  the  mother. 

"Now  that  I  come  to  look  at  her  I  can  see 
heaps  of  difference,"  said  the  daughter. 

"None  the  less,"  I  interjected,  "you  turned  a 
very  honest  man  into  a  thief,  and  a  dog-thief  at 
that;  and  he  insists  on  reparation." 

"Yes,  indeed,"  said  the  mother,  "it  is  really 
too  bad.     What  reparation  can  we  make?" 

I    don't  pretend  that  my    feelings   are  com- 
pletely   soothed,   but   the    Clicquot    1904   which 
took  the  place  of  claret  at  dinner  that  evening 
was  certainly  very  good. 
[222] 


THE  SUFFERER 

HAVING  engaged  a  sleeping-berth  I  natur- 
ally hurried,  coin  in  hand,  to  the  conduc- 
tor, as  all  wise  travellers  do  (usually  to  their  dis- 
comfiture) to  see  if  I  could  be  accommodated 
with  a  compartment  to  myself  and  be  guaran- 
teed against  invasion. 

I  couldn't. 

I  then  sought  my  compartment,  to  learn  the 
worst  as  to  my  position,  whether  above  or  below 
the  necessarily  offensive  person  who  was  to  be 
my  companion. 

He  was  already  there,  and  we  exchanged  the 
hard  implacable  glare  that  is  reserved  among  the 
English  for  the  other  fellow  in  a  wagon-lit. 

When  I  discovered  that  to  him  had  fallen  the 
dreaded  upper  berth  I  relaxed  a  little,  and  later 
we  were  full  of  courtesies  to  each  other — renun- 
ciations of  hatpegs,  racks,  and  so  forth,  and 
charming  mutual  concessions  as  to  the  light, 
which  I  controlled  from  below — so  that  by 
morning  we  were  so  friendly  that  he  deemed  me 
a  fit  recipient  of  his  Great  Paris  Grievance. 

This  grievance,  which  he  considered  that 
every  one  should  know  about,  bore  upon  the 
prevalence  of  spurious  coins  in  the  so-called  Gay 

[223] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

City  and  the  tendency  of  Parisians  to  work  them 
off  on  foreigners.  As  he  said,  a  more  inhos- 
pitable course  one  cannot  conceive.  Foreigners 
in  Paris  should  be  treated  as  guests,  the  English 
especially.  But  it  is  the  English  who  are  the 
first  victims  of  the  possessor  of  francs  that  are 
out  of  date,  five-franc  pieces  guiltless  of  their 
country's  silver,  and  ten-franc  pieces  into  whose 
composition  no  gold  has  entered. 

He  had  been  in  Paris  but  an  hour  or  so  when 
— but  let  me  tell  the  story  as  my  travelling  com- 
panion told  it  to  me. 

"I  don't  know  what  your  experience  in  Paris 
has  been,"  he  said,  "but  I  have  been  victimised 
right  and  left." 

He  was  now  getting  up,  while  I  lay  at  com- 
parative ease  in  my  berth  and  watched  his  diffi- 
culties in  the  congested  room  and  disliked  his 
under  vest. 

"I  had  been  in  Paris  but  a  few  hours,"  he 
continued,  "when  it  was  necessary  to  pay  a  cab- 
man. I  handed  him  a  franc.  He  examined  it, 
laughed  and  returned  it.  I  handed  him  another. 
He  went  through  the  same  performance.  Hav- 
ing found  some  good  money  to  get  rid  of  him,  I 
sat  down  outside  a  cafe  to  try  and  remember 
where  I  had  received  the  change  in  which  these 
useless  coins  had  been  inserted.  During  a  week  in 
'Paris  much  of  my  time  was  spent  in  that  way." 
[224] 


The  SufFerer 

He  sighed  and  drew  on  his  trousers.  His 
braces  were  red. 

"I  showed  the  bad  francs  to  a  waiter/'  he 
went  on,  "and  he,  like  the  cabman,  laughed.  In 
fact,  next  to  nudity,  there  is  no  theme  so  certain 
to  provoke  Parisian  mirth  as  a  bad  coin.  The 
first  thought  of  every  one  to  whom  I  showed  my 
collection  was  to  be  amused."  His  face  black- 
ened with  rage.  "This  cheerful  callousness  in 
a  matter  involving  a  total  want  of  principle  and 
straight-dealing  as  between  man  and  man,"  he 
said,  "denotes  to  what  a  point  of  cynicism  the 
Parisians  have  attained." 

I  agreed  with  him. 

"The  waiter,"  he  continued,  "went  through  my 
money  and  pointed  out  what  was  good  and  what 
either  bad  or  out  of  currency.  He  called  other 
waiters  to  enjoy  the  joke.  It  seemed  that  in 
about  four  hours  I  had  acquired  three  bad 
francs,  one  bad  two-franc  piece  and  two  bad 
five-franc  pieces.  I  put  them  away  in  another 
pocket  and  got  fresh  change  from  him,  which, 
as  I  subsequently  discovered,  contained  one  ob- 
solete five-franc  piece  and  two  discredited 
francs.  And  so  it  went  on.  I  was  a  continual 
target  for  them." 

Here  he  began  to  wash,  and  the  story  was  in- 
terrupted. 

[225] 


Adventures  arxd  Enthusiasms 

When  he  re-emerged  I  asked  him  why  he 
didn't  always  examine  his  change. 

"It's  very  difficult  to  remember  to  do  so/'  he 
said,  "andj  besides,  I  am  not  an  expert.  Anyway, 
it  got  worse  and  worse,  and  when  a  bad  gold 
piece  came  along  I  realised  that  I  must  do  some- 
thing; so  I  wrote  to  the  Chief  of  the  Police." 

"In  French.''"  I  asked. 

"No,  in  English — the  language  of  honesty. 
I  told  him  my  own  experiences.  I  said  that 
other  English  people  whom  I  had  met  had  testi- 
fied to  similar  trouble;  and  I  put  it  to  him  that 
as  a  matter  of  civic  pride — esprit  de  pays — he 
should  do  his  utmost  to  cleanse  Paris  of  this 
evil.  I  added  that  in  my  opinion  the  waiters 
were  the  worst  offenders." 

"Have  you  had  a  reply.''"  I  asked. 

"Not  yet,"  he  said,  and  having  completed  his 
toilet  he  made  room  for  me. 

Later,  meeting  him  in  the  restaurant-car,  I 
asked  him  to  show  me  his  store  of  bad  money. 
I  wanted  to  see  for  myself  what  these  coins  were 
like. 

"I  haven't  got  them,"  he  said. 

"You  sent  them  to  the  Chief  of  the  Police 
with  your  letter,  I  suppose.^"  I  said. 

"No,  I  didn't,"  he  replied.     "The  fact  is — ■ 
well — as  a  matter  of   fact  I  managed  to  work 
them  all  off  again." 
[226] 


A  SOUTH  SEA  BUBBLE 

I  WANT  you,"  said  my  hostess,  "to  take  in 
Mrs.  Blank.  She  is  charming.  All  through 
the  War  she  has  been  with  her  husband  in  the 
South  Seas,     London  is  a  new  place  to  her." 

Mrs.  Blank  did  not  look  too  promising.  She 
was  pretty  in  her  way — "elegant"  an  American 
would  have  called  her — but  she  lacked  anima- 
tion. However,  the  South  Seas  .  .  .  !  Any  one 
fresh  from  the  Pacific  must  have  enough  to  tell 
to  see  soup,  fish,  and  entree  safely  through. 

I  began  by  remarking  that  she  must  find  Lon- 
don a  very  complete  change  after  the  sun  and 
serenity  that  she  had  come  from. 

"It's  certainly  noisier,"  she  said;  "but  we  had 
our  share  of  rain." 

"I  thought  it  was  always  fine  there/'  I  re- 
marked; but  she  laughed  a  denial  and  relapsed 
into  silence. 

She  was  one  of  those  women  who  don't  take 
soup,  and  this  made  the  economy  of  her  utter- 
ances the  more  unfair. 

Racking  my  brain  for  a  new  start,  I  fell  back 
on  those  useful  fellows,  the  authors.  Presuming 
that  any  one  who  had  lived  in  that  fascinating 

[227] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

region — the  promised  land  of  so  many  of  us 
who  are  weary  of  English  climatic  treacheries — 
would  be  familiar  with  the  literature  of  it,  I 
went  boldy  to  work. 

"The  first  book  about  the  South  Seas  that  I 
ever  read,"  I  said,  "was  Ballantyne's  'Coral 
Island'." 

"Indeed !"  she  replied. 

I  asked  her  if  she  too  had  not  been  brought 
up  on  Ballantyne,  and  she  said  no.  She  did  not 
even  know  his  name. 

"He  wrote  for  boys,"  I  explained,  rather 
lamely. 

"I  read  poetry  chiefly  as  a  girl,"  she  said. 

"But  surely  you  know  Stevenson's  'Island 
Nights'  Entertainments'.''"  I  said. 

No,  she  did  not.     Was  it  nice? 

"It's  extraordinary,"  I  said.  "It  gives  you 
more  of  the  atmosphere  of  the  South  Seas  than 
any  other  work.  And  Louis  Becke — ^you  must 
have  read  him?"  I  continued. 

No,  she  had  not.  She  read  very  little.  The 
last  book  she  had  read  was  on  spiritualism. 

"Not  even  Conrad?"  I  pursued.  "No  one  has 
so  described  the  calms  and  storms  of  the  Pa- 
cific." 

No,  she  remembered  no  story  called  Conrad. 

I  was  about  the  explain  that  Conrad  was  the 
writer,  not  the  written ;  but  it  seemed  a  waste 
[228] 


A  South  Sea  Bubble 

of  words,  and  we  fell  into  a  stillness  broken  only 
1  7  the  sound  of  knife  and  fork. 

"I  wonder,"  I  ventured  next,  "if  you  came 
across  anyone  who  had  met  Ganguin." 

"Go — what?"  she  asked. 

"That  amazing  Peruvian-Frenchman,"  I  went 
on,  with  a  certain  foolish  desperation.  "Gan- 
guin.   He  Lived  in  Tahiti." 

"How  comically  geographical  you  are!"  was 
all  she  replied,  and  again  a  silence  brooded 
over  our  plates. 

"Hang  it!  you  shall  talk,"  I  said  to  myself; 
and  then  aloud,  "Tell  me  all  about  copra.  I 
have  longed  to  know  what  copra  is ;  how  it 
grows,  what  it  looks  like,  what  it  is  for." 

"You  have  come  to  the  wrong  person,"  sh.3 
replied,  with  very  wide  eyes.  "I  never  heard  of 
it.  Or  did  you  say  'cobra'.''  Of  course  I  know 
what  a  cobra  is — it's  a  snake.  I've  seen  them  at 
the  Zoo." 

I  put  her  right.  "Copra,  the  stuff  that  the 
traders  in  the  South  Seas  deal  in." 

"I  never  heard  of  it,"  she  said,  "but  then 
why  should  I .''  I  know  nothing  about  the  South 
Seas." 

My  stock  fell  thirty  points  and  I  crumbled 
bread  nervously,  hoping  for  something  sensible 
to  say;  but  at  this  moment  "half-time"  merci- 
fully   set   in.      My   partner   on   the    other    side 

[229] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

turned  to  me  suavely  and  asked  if  I  thought  the 
verses  in  "Abraham  Lincoln"  were  a  beauty  or  a 
blemish;  and  with  the  assistance  of  the  Russian 
ballet,  some  new  novels,  and  the  universal  un- 
rest I  sailed  serenely  into  port.  She  was  as  easy 
and  agreeable  a  woman  as  that  other  was  diflS- 
cult,  and  before  she  left  for  the  drawing-room 
she  had  invited  me  to  lunch  and  I  had  accepted. 
As  I  said  good  night  to  my  hostess  I  asked 
why  she  had  told  me  that  my  first  partner  had 
been  in  the  South  Seas.  She  said  that  she  had 
said  nothing  of  the  sort;  what  she  had  said  was 
that  during  the  War  she  had  been  stationed  with 
her  husband,  Colonel  Blank,  at  Southsea. 


[230] 


ON  FINDING  THINGS 

AFTER  the  passage  of  several  years  since 
I  had  picked  up  anything,  last  week  I 
found  successively  a  carriage  key  (in  Royal 
Hospital  Road),  a  brooch  (in  Church  Street, 
Kensington),  and  sixpence  in  a  third-class  com- 
partment. It  was  as  I  stooped  to  pick  up  the 
sixpence,  which  had  suddenly  gleamed  at  me 
under  the  seat  of  the  now  empty  carriage,  that 
I  said  to  myself  that  finding  things  is  one  of 
the  purest  of  earthly  joys. 

And  how  rare ! 

I  have,  in  a  lifetime  that  now  and  then  ap- 
pals me  by  its  length,  foimd  almost  nothing. 
These  three  things  this  week;  a  brown-paper 
packet  when  I  was  about  seven,  containing  eight 
pennies  and  one  halfpenny;  on  the  grass  in  the 
New  Forest,  when  I  was  about  twenty,  a  half- 
dollar  piece;  and  at  Brighton,  not  long  after,  a 
gold  brooch  of  just  sufficient  value  to  make  it 
decent  to  take  it  to  the  police  station,  from 
which,  a  year  later,  no  one  having  claimed  it, 
it  was  returned  to  me:  these  constitute  nearly 
half  a  century's  haul.     I  might  add — now  and 

[231] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

then,  perhaps,  a  safety-pin,  pencil,  some  other 
trifle,  which,  however  well  supplied  with  such 
articles  one  may  be,  cannot  be  acquired  from  a 
clear  sky  without  a  thrill.  Even  Mr.  Rocke- 
feller, I  take  it,  would  not  have  been  unmoved 
had  he,  instead  of  myself,  stumbled  on  that 
treasure  between  Stony  Cross  and  Boldrewood. 

To  be  given  such  things  is  not  a  comparable 
experience.  With  a  gift — intention,  conscious- 
ness, preparr'iljn,  come  in;  to  say  nothing  of 
obligation  later.  The  event  is  also  complicated 
(and  therefore  shorn  of  its  glory)  by  the  second 
person,  since  the  gift  must  be  given.  But, 
suddenly  dropping  one's  eyes,  to  be  aware  of 
a  coin — that  is  sheer  raj^ture.  Other  things  can 
be  exciting  too,  but  a  coin  is  best,  because  a 
coin  is  rarely  identifiable  by  a  previous  owner; 
and  I  am  naturally  confining  myself  to  those 
things  the  ownership  of  which  could  not  possibly 
be  traced.  To  find  things  which  have  to  be  sur- 
rendered is  as  impure  a  joy  as  the  world  con- 
tains, and  no  theme  for  this  pen. 

The  special  quality  of  the  act  of  finding 
something,  with  its  consequent  exhilaration,  is 
half  unexpectedness  and  half  scparateness. 
There  being  no  warning,  and  the  article  coming 
to  you  by  chance,  no  one  is  to  be  thanked, 
no  one  to  be  owed  anything.  In  short,  you  have 
achieved  the  greatest  human  triumph — you  have 
[232] 


On  Finding  Things 

got  something  for  nothing.  That  is  the  true 
idea:  the  "nothing"  must  be  absolute;  one  must 
never  have  looked,  never  have  had  any  finding 
intention,  or  even  hope.  To  look  for  things  is 
to  change  the  whole  theory — to  rob  it  of  its 
divine  suddenness;  to  become  anxious,  even 
avaricious;  to  partake  of  the  nature  of  the  rag- 
picker, the  chiffonier,  or  those  strange  men  that 
one  notices  walking,  with  bent  heads,  along  the 
shore  after  a  storm.  (None  the  less  that  was  a 
great  moment,  once,  in  the  island  of  Coll,  when 
after  two  hours'  systematic  searching  I  found 
the  plover's  nest.) 

Finding  things  is  at  once  so  rare  and  pure 
a  joy  that  to  trifle  with  it  is  peculiarly  heart- 
less. Yet  are  there  people  so  wantonly  in  need 
of  sport  as  to  do  so.  Every  one  knows  of  the 
purse  laid  on  the  path  or  pavement  beside  a 
fence,  which,  as  the  excited  passer-by  stoops  to 
pick  it  up,  is  twitched  through  the  palings  by 
its  adherent  string.  There  is  also  the  coin  at- 
tached to  a  thread  which  can  be  dropped  in  the 
street  and  instantly  pulled  up  again,  setting 
every  eye  at  a  pavement  scrutiny.  Could  there 
be  lower  tricks?  I  fear  so,  because  some  years 
ago,  in  the  great  days  of  a  rendezvous  of 
Bohemians  in  the  Strand  known  as  the  Marble 
Halls,  a  wicked  wag  (I  have  been  told)  once 
nailed  a  bad  but  plausible  sovereign  to  the  floor 

[233] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

and  waited  events.  In  the  case  of  the  purse 
and  string  the  butts  are  few  and  far  between 
and  there  is  usually  only  a  small  audience  to 
rejoice  in  their  discomfiture,  but  the  denouement 
of  the  cruel  comedy  of  which  acquisitiveness  and 
cunning  were  the  warp  and  woof  at  the  Marble 
Halls  was  only  too  bitterly  public.  I  am  told, 
such  is  human  resourcefulness  in  guile,  that 
very  few  of  those  who  saw  the  coin  and  marked 
it  down  as  their  own  went  for  it  right  away, 
because  had  they  done  so  the  action  might  have 
been  noticed  and  the  booty  claimed.  Instead, 
the  discoverer  would  look  swiftly  and  stealthily 
round,  and  then  gradually  and  with  every  affec- 
tation of  nonchalance  (which  to  those  in  the  se- 
cret, watching  from  the  corners  of  their  wicked 
eyes,  was  so  funny  as  to  be  an  agony)  he 
would  get  nearer  and  nearer  until  he  was  able 
at  last  to  place  one  foot  on  it. 

This  accomplished,  he  would  relax  into  some- 
thing like  real  naturalness,  and,  practically  cer- 
tain of  his  prey,  take  things  easily  for  a  mo- 
ment or  so.  Often,  I  am  told,  the  poor  dupe 
would,  at  this  point,  whistle  the  latest  tune. 
Even  now,  however,  he  dared  not  abandon  sub- 
terfuge, or  his  prize,  were  he  seen  to  pick  it 
up,  might  have  to  be  surrendered  or  shared; 
so  the  next  move  was  to  drop  his  handker- 
chief, the  idea  being  to  pick  up  both  it  and  the 
[234] 


On  Finding  Things 

sovereign  together.  Such  explosions  of  laughter 
as  followed  upon  his  failure  to  do  so  can  (I  am 
informed)  rarely  have  been  heard. 

— Such  was  the  conspiracy  of  the  nailed  sov- 
ereign^ which^  now  and  then,  the  victim,  shak- 
ing the  chagrin  from  him,  would  without  shame 
himself  join,  and  become  a  delighted  spectator 
of  his  successor's  humiliation. 

Can  you  conceive  of  a  more  impish  hoax? 
But  I  should  like  to  have  witnessed  it. 


[235] 


PUNCTUALITY 

AMONG  my  good  resolutions  for  the  New 
Year  I  very  nearly  included  the  deter- 
mination never  to  be  punctual  again.  I  held 
my  hand,  just  in  time;  but  it  was  a  near  thing. 

For  a  long  while  it  had  been,  with  me,  a 
point  of  honour  to  be  on  time,  and,  possibly, 
I  had  become  a  little  self-righteous  on  the  mat- 
ter, rebuking  too  caustically  those  with  a  laxer 
standard.  But  towards  the  close  of  IPIQ  doubts 
began  to  creep  in.  For  one  thing,  modern  con- 
ditions were  making  it  very  hard  to  keep  en- 
gagements to  the  letter;  taxis  were  scarce  and 
trains  and  omnibuses  crowded,  so  that  in  order 
to  be  piTnctual  one  had  to  walk  and  thus  lose 
many  precious  minutes;  for  another,  I  had  such 
a  number  of  appointments  which  were  not  kept 
by  the  other  parties  that  I  had  to  take  the, 
matter  into  serious  consideration,  for  they  all( 
meant  disorganisation  of  a  rather  exacting  time-a 
table  at  a  period  when  I  was  unusually  busy.'' 
Moreover,  while  waiting  for  a  late  friend,  it  is 
impossible  to  do  anything — one  is  too  impatient 
or  unsettled. 

Why,   I   began  to   ask   myself,   should   I   do 
[236] 


Punctuality 

all  the  waiting  and  get  hungry  and  cross,  and 
•why  should  they  do  all  the  arriving-^hen-every- 
thing-is-ready  ?  Why  should  not  the  roles  be 
reversed  ? 

When  conscription  came  in  and  martial  habits 
became  the  rule,  I  had  hoped  and  believed  that 
punctuality  was  really  likely  to  be  established. 
I  thought  this  because  one  had  always  heard 
so  much  about  Army  precision,  and  also  because 
my  most  punctual  friend  for  many  years  had 
been  a  soldier  and  we  had  engaged  in  a  rivalry 
in  the  matter.  But  I  was  wrong.  During  the 
War  the  soldiers  home  on  leave  took  every  ad- 
vantage of  one's  gratitude  to  them,  while  the 
first  demobilised  one  whom  I  entertained  kept 
me  waiting  forty  minutes  for  dinner. 

The  pity  of  it  is  that  this  particular  tarrying 
guest  is  a  man  of  eminence  and  capacity.  Were 
he  a  failure,  as  according  to  our  own  Samuel 
Smiles  or  the  author  of  that  famous  American 
book  "From  Princeton  College  to  Colonel 
House,"  he  ought  to  be,  all  would  be  well;  but 
he  is  not;  he  has  never  been  punctual  in  his 
life  and  he  has  had  an  exceptionally  successful 
career.  The  books  tell  us  that  the  unpunctual 
man  is  disqualified  in  the  race  for  fortune;  that 
no  one  will  employ  him,  no  one  will  trust  him. 
They  say  that  the  keeping  of  appointments  is 
a  test  both  of  character  and  quality.     Business 

[237] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

men  interviewing  applicants  for  posts,  they  tell 
us,  will  engage  no  one,  no  matter  what  his  at- 
tainments, who  does  not  arrive  promptly.  But 
these  hard  and  fast  schemes  of  appraisement 
can,  as  I  have  shown,  be  all  wrong.  Wisdom, 
after  all,  is  an  element  in  business  success ; 
and  what  wise  man  would  ever  be  punctual  at 
his  dentist's  ?  What  kind  of  respect  a  dentist  has 
for  his  first  appointment  of  the  day,  I  cannot 
tell.  I  have  avoided  these  early  seances;  but 
every  one  knows  that  he  is  never  ready  for  a 
patient  at  the  covenanted  hour  after  that.  Edi- 
tors usually  keep  their  visitors  waiting.  No 
theatrical  manager  has  ever  been  on  time;  but 
then  time  does  not  exist  for  the  stage,  because, 
apart  from  their  profession,  actors  have  nothing 
to  do.  Rehearsals  are  one  immense  distracting 
outrage  upon  the  routine  of  an  ordered  exist- 
ence; and  yet  actors  are  a  very  happy  folk. 

Until  late  in  IPIP,  as  I  have  said,  I  had  loved 
Punctualia  with  a  true  ardour;  but  I  now  found 
myself  sufficiently  free  from  passion  to  be  able 
to  examine  her  critically  and  to  discern  faults. 
For  there  is  a  good  deal  to  be  said  against 
her. 

To  be  always  correct  is  a  dangerous  thing.     I 

have  noticed  that  the  people  who  are  late  are 

often  so  much  jollier  than  the  people  who  have 

to    wait    for   them.      Looking   deeply    into   the 

[238] 


Punctuality 

matter,  I  realised  that  Punctualia,  for  all  her 
complacency  and  air  of  rectitude,  has  lost  a 
great  many  lives.  The  logic  of  the  thing  is 
inexorable.  If  you  are  late  for  the  train,  you 
miss  it;  and  if  you  are  not  in  it  and  it  is 
wrecked,  you  live  on — to  miss  others.  I  recalled 
one  very  remarkable  case  in  point  which  hap- 
pened in  my  own  family  circle.  A  relation  of 
mine,  with  her  daughter,  had  arranged  to  spend 
a  holiday  in  the  Channel  Islands.  A  cabman 
promised  and  failed,  arriving  in  time  only  to 
whip  his  horse  all  the  way  across  London  and 
miss  the  train  by  a  minute.  When,  the  next  day, 
it  was  learned  that  the  Channel  Islands  boat 
had  struck  the-  Casquettes  and  had  gone  down 
the  ladies  were  so  excited  by  their  escape  that 
they  sought  the  cabman  and  by  way  of  gratitude 
adopted  one  of  his  numerous  children.  That  is 
a  true  story,  and  it  is  surely  a  very  eloquent 
supporter  of  an  anti-punctual  policy.  Had  the 
ladies  caught  the  train  they  would  have  been 
drowned,  and  the  cabman's  bantling  would  have 
lacked  any  but  the  most  elementary  education. 
Can  you  wonder,  then,  that  I  nearly  included 
a  determination  never  to  be  punctual  again 
among  my  New  Year  resolutions  ?  But  I  did 
not  go  so  far.  I  left  it  at  the  decision  not 
to  be  so  particular  about  punctuality  as  I  used 
to  be. 

[239] 


THE  OTHER  TWO 

IT  is  my  good  or  ill  fortune  to  have  taken  a 
furnished  flat  at  a  dizzy  altitude  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  that  London  terminus  which 
is  at  once  nearest  the  sea  and  the  Promised 
Land.  Immediately  above  the  flat  is  a  spacious 
roof,  which  afl^ords  a  pleasant  retreat  in  the 
cool  of  the  evening  and  commands  what  the 
agents  call  an  extensive  prospect,  and  where,  at 
most  hours,  toy  dogs  may  be  met.  The  flat 
itself  consists  of  a  number  of  rooms  the  walls 
of  which  are  covered  with  photographs  of  men, 
women,  and  cliildren,  almost  as  thickly  as  the 
pages  of  a  schoolboy's  album  are  covered  with 
stamps.  There  are  more  men  than  women,  and 
more  women  than  children.  The  men  have 
obsolete  beards ;  several  of  the  women  seem  to 
be  sisters,  and  have  been  taken  together  with 
their  heads  inclining  towards  each  other  at  an 
aflTectionate  angle,  which,  although  affectionate^ 
does  not  render  the  thought  impossible  that 
each  sister  secretly  is  convinced  that  she  is 
the  handsomer.  There  are  also  sets  of  children 
graduated  like  organ  pipes.  These  photographs 
[240] 


The  Other  Two 

not  only  hang  on  the  walls  but  they  swarm  in 
frames  about  the  mantelpieces  and  the  occa- 
sional tables.  The  occasional  tables  are  so  num- 
erous and  varied  in  size  that  one  might  imagine 
this   their  stud   farm. 

The  beginning  of  my  tenancy  was  marked  by 
a  tragedy.  The  larder  window  having  been  left 
cpen  by  the  previous  occupants,  a  large  slate- 
coloured  pigeon,  with  schemes  for  a  family, 
had  made  a  nest  and  laid  an  egg  in  it,  and,  at 
the  very  moment  when  I  suddenly  opened  the 
door,  was  preparing  to  lay  another.  To  this 
achievement  I  personally  should  have  had  no 
objection;  but  the  porter,  who  was  showing  me 
round,  and  who  has  a  sense  of  decorum  more 
proper  to  such  apartments,  had  other  views,  and 
before  I  could  interfere  he  had  removed  the  egg, 
brushed  away  the  nest,  and  closed  the  window. 
That  ended  his  share  of  the  drama;  but  mine 
was  to  begin,  for  ever  since  that  day  the  pigeon, 
with  a  depth  of  reproachfulness  in  its  eyes 
that  is  extremely  distressing,  has  sat  on  the 
kitchen  window-sill  making  desperate  eiforts  to 
get  in,  so  that  I  creep  about  feeling  like  Herod. 
During  Baby  Week  it  was  almost  unbearable. 
Even  when  I  am  far  from  the  kitchen  I  can  hear 
its  plaintive  injured  cooing. 

The  flat  is  conspicuous  in  possessing,  in  addi- 
tion to  numerous  other  advantages,  such  as  a 

[£41] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

night  porter  to  work  the  lift,  who  is  never 
visible,  and  a  day  porter  who,  having  been  for- 
bidden by  the  powers  that  be  to  use  the  lift 
before  two  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  scrupulously 
obeys  the  new  regulation,  except  when  he  has 
to  ascend  to  an  upper  floor  himself:  the  flat 
has,  in  addition  to  these  advantages,  windows 
that  refuse  to  be  lifted  by  any  but  a  Hercules, 
and  doors  (ten  in  all)  not  one  of  which  will 
remain  open  except  by  artificial  means.  Whether 
or  not  this  is  a  peculiarity  of  Westminster  archi- 
tecture I  cannot  say,  but  all  the  doors  are  alike. 
They  each  quickly  but  remorselessly  close,  yet 
so  gently  that  the  latch  does  not  catch,  and 
every  breath  of  draught  (and  we  by  no  means 
stop  at  breaths)  sways  them  noisily  to  and  fro 
with  a  sound  that  is  excessively  irritating  to 
the  nerves.  I  have  therefore  either  to  go  to 
the  door  and  fasten  it  or  find  something  with 
which  to  fix  it  open.  Normally,  I  use  a  chair  or 
a  weight  from  the  kitchen  scales;  but  two  of 
the  rooms — the  drawing-room,  where  the  occa- 
sional tables  are  most  fecund,  and  the  dining- 
room,  where  I  do  everything  but  dine — are  sup- 
plied with  door-stops  of  their  own,  consisting 
each  of  an  elephant's  foot  mounted  with  brass. 
Picture  me  then,  the  most  Occidental  of  men 
and  so  long  a  devotee  of  the  study  and  the 
shelf  as  to  be  less  of  a  big-game  hunter  than 
[242] 


The  Other  Two 

any  one  you  could  imagine,  moving  about  ♦'.his 
intensely  sophisticated  flat  carrying  from  room 
to  room  the  foot  of  a  mammoth  '>f  the  Indian 
jungle  or  the  African  forest  (I  don't  know 
which)  in  order  to  prevent  a  London  door  from 
banging.  Imperial  Cassar's  destiny  was  not  'ess 
exalted  or  more  incongruous. 

If  there  were  four  of  these  feet  I  should  he 
more  at  ease.  But  there  are  only  two  of  them, 
and  I  have  been  to  the  Zoo  often  enough  to 
know  that  elephants  are  quadrupeds.  Where 
then  are  the  other  two?  That  is  the  question 
which  is  wearing  me  out.  I  lie  awake  at  night, 
wondering,  and  then,  falling  into  an  measy 
sleep,  hear  a  heavy  stumbling  tread  on  the  stairs 
and  wake  in  terror  expecting  the  door  to  burst 
open  and  the  other  half  of  the  elephant  to  id- 
vance  upon  me  demanding  its  lost  feet.  It  is 
always  a  dreadful  nightmare,  but  never  more  so 
than  when  the  mammoth  not  only  towers  up  grey 
and  threatening,  but  coos  like  an  exiled  pigeon. 


[243] 


ON  SECRET  PASSAGES 

I  WAS  hearing  the  other  day  of  an  old  house 
in  Sussex  where,  while  doing  some  repairs, 
the  builders'  men  chanced  on  the  mouth  of  an 
underground  passage  which  they  traced  for  two 
miles.  Why  should  that  discovery  be  interest- 
ing? Why  is  everything  to  do  with  underground 
passages  so  interesting?  It  is,  I  suppose,  be- 
cause they  are  usually  secret,  and  the  very  word 
secret,  no  matter  how  applied  (except  perhaps 
to  treaties)  is  alluring:  secret  drawers,  secret 
cupboards,  secret  chambers;  but  the  secret  pas- 
sage is  best,  because  it  leads  from  one  place  to 
another,  and  either  war  or  love  called  it  into 
being:  war  or  love,  or,  as  in  the  case  of  priests' 
hiding  holes,  religious  persecution,  which  is  a 
branch  of  war. 

Nothing  can  deprive  the  secret  passage  of 
its  glamour:  not  all  the  Tubes,  or  subways,  or 
river  tunnelling,  through  which  we  pass  so 
naturally  day  after  day.  Any  private  excava- 
tion is  exciting;  to  enter  a  dark  cellar,  even, 
carries  a  certain  emotion.  How. mysterious  are 
crypts !  How  awesome  are  the  catacombs  of 
Rome !  How  it  brings  back  the  lawless,  turbu- 
lent past  of  Florence  merely  to  walk  through 
[244} 


On  Secret  Passages 

that  long  passage  (not  underground  but  over- 
ground, yet  no  less  dramatic  for  that)  which, 
passing  above  the  Ponte  Vecchio,  unites  the  Pitti 
and  the  Uffizi  and  made  it  possible,  unseen  by 
the  Florentines,  to  transfer  bodies  of  armed  men 
from  one  side  of  the  Arno  to  the  other ! 

It  was  the  underground  passage  idea  which 
gave  the  Druce  Case  such  possibilities  of  mys- 
tery and  romance.  That  a  duke  should  mas- 
querade as  an  upholsterer  was  in  itself  an  en- 
gaging idea;  but  without  the  underground  pas- 
sage connecting  Baker  Street  with  Cavendish 
Square  the  story  was  no  more  than  an  ordinary^ 
feuilleton.  I  shall  always  regret  that  it  was 
not  true;  and  even  now  some  one  ought  to  take 
it  in  hand  and  make  a  real  romance  of  it,  with 
the  double-lived  nobleman  leaving  his  own  home 
so  regularly  every  morning  (by  the  trap  door), 
doffing  his  coronet  and  robes  and  changing  en 
route  somewliere  under  Wigmore  Street,  and  ap- 
pearing unseen  (by  another  trap  door)  in  the 
Bazaar,  all  smug  and  punctual  and  rubbing  his 
hands.  It  would  be  not  only  thrilling,  but  such 
a  satire  on  ducal  dulness.  And  then  the  great 
Law  Court  scenes,  the  rival  heirs,  the  impas- 
sioned counsel,  the  vast  sums  at  stake,  the  sanc- 
tion of  the  judge  to  open  the  grave,  and  finally 
the  discovery  that  there  was  no  body  there  after 
all — nothing  but  bricks — and  the  fantastic  story 

[245] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

really  was  fact !  There  has  been  no  better 
plot  since  "Monte  Cristo/'  and  that,  you  re- 
member, would  be  nothing  had  not  the  Abbe 
Faria  excavated  the  secret  passage  from  his  cell 
through  which  Edmond  was  able  to  re-enter 
the  world  and  start  upon  his  career  of  sym- 
metrical vengeance. 

What,  of  course,  gave  such  likelihood  to  the 
Druce  allegations  was  the  circumstance  that  the 
Duke  of  Portland  spent  so  much  of  his  life  at 
Welbeck  underground.  A  man  who  is  known 
to  do  that  must  expect  to  be  the  subject  of 
romantic  exaggerations. 

Another  reason  for  wishing  the  Druce  story 
to  be  true  is  that,  if  it  were  true,  if  one  aristo- 
crat thus  duplicated  and  enriched  his  life,  others 
also  would  do  so;  for  there  are  no  single  in- 
stances; and  this  means  that  London  would  be 
honey-combed  by  secret  underground  passages 
constructed  to  promote  these  entertaining  de- 
ceptions, and  shopping  would  become  an  absorb- 
ing pastime,  for  we  should  never  know  with 
whom  we  were  chaffering.     But  alas   .    .    .  ! 

Just  as  an  ordinary  desk  takes  on  a  new 
character  directly  one  is  told  that  it  has  a  secret 
drawer,  so  does  even  a  whisper  of  a  secret  pas- 
sage transfigure  the  most  commonplace  house. 
Arriving  in  Gloucester  not  so  very  long  ago, 
and  needing  a  resting-place  for  the  night,  I 
[246] 


On  Secret  Passages 

automatically  chose  the  hotel  which  claimed,  in 
the  advertisement,  to  date  from  the  fourteenth 
century  and  possess  an  underground  passage  to 
the  cathedral.  The  fact  that,  as  the  young  lady 
in  the  office  assured  me,  the  passage,  if  it  ever 
existed,  no  longer  is  accessible,  made  very  little 
difference:  tlie  idea  of  it  was  the  attraction  and 
determined  the  choice  of  the  inn.  The  Y.  M. 
C.  A.  headquarters  at  Brighton  on  the  Old 
Steyne  ceases  to  be  under  the  dominion  of  those 
initials — four  letters  which,  for  all  their  earnest 
of  usefulness,  are  as  far  removed  from  the 
suggestion  of  clandestine  intrigue  as  any  could 
be — and  becomes  a  totally  different  structure 
when  one  is  told  that  when,  long  before  its  con- 
version, Mrs.  Fitzherbert  lived  there,  an  under- 
ground passage  existed  between  it  and  the 
Pavilion  for  the  use  of  the  First  Gentleman  in 
Europe.  Whether  it  is  fact  or  fancy  I  cannot 
say,  but  that  the  Pavilion  has  a  hidden  staircase 
and  an  underground  passage  to  the  Dome  I 
happen  to  know.  A  hidden  staircase  has  hardly 
fewer  adventurous  potentialities  than  a  secret 
passage.  I  was  told  of  one  at  Greenwich  Hos- 
pital: in  the  wing  built  by  Charles  II.  is  a  secret 
staircase  in  the  wall  leading  to  the  apartments 
set  apart  for  (need  I  say?)  Mistress  Eleanor 
Gwynne?  These  rooms,  such  is  the  deteriorat- 
ing effect  of  modernity,  are  now  offices. 

[247] 


LITTLE  MISS  BANKS 

TO  many  people  wholly  free  from  super- 
stition, except  that,  after  spilling  the  salt, 
they  are  careful  to  throw  a  little  over  the  left 
shoulder,  and  do  not  walk  under  ladders  unless 
witli  crossed  thumbs,  and  refuse  to  sit  thirteen 
at  table,  and  never  bring  May  blossoms  into 
the  house — to  these  people,  otherwise  so  free 
from  superstition,  it  would  perhaps  be  surpris- 
ing to  know  what  great  numbers  of  their  fel- 
low-creatures resort  daily  to  such  a  black  art  as 
fortune-telling  by  the   cards. 

Yet  quite  respectable.  God-fearing,  church- 
going  old  ladies,  and  probably  old  gentlemen 
too,  treasure  this  practice,  to  say  nothing  of 
younger  and  therefore  naturally  more  friv'olous 
folk;  and  many  make  the  consultation  of  the 
two-and-fifty   oracles   a  morning  habit. 

Particularly  women.  Those  well-thumbed 
packs  of  cards  that  we  know  so  well  are  not 
wholly  dedicated  to  "Patience,"  I  can  assure 
you. 

All  want  to  be  told  the  same  thing:  what 
the  day  will  bring  forth.  But  each  searcher 
[248] 


Little  jNIiss  Banks 

into  the  dim  and  dangerous  future  has,  of 
course,  individual  methods — some  shuffling  seven 
times  and  some  ten,  and  so  forth,  and  all  in- 
tent upon  placating  the  elfish  goddess.  Caprice. 

There  is  little  ]Miss  Banks,  for  example. 

Nothing  would  induce  little  Miss  Banks  to 
leave  the  house  in  the  morning  without  seeing 
what  the  cards  promised  her,  and  so  open  and 
impressionable  are  her  mind  and  heart  that 
she  is  still  interested  in  the  colour  of  the  ro- 
mantic fellow  whom  the  day,  if  kind,  is  to  fling 
across  her  path.  The  cards,  as  you  know, 
are  great  on  colours,  all  men  being  divided 
into  three  groups;  dark  (which  has  the  prefer- 
ence), fair,  and  middling.  Similarly  for  you, 
if  you  can  get  little  Miss  Banks  to  read  your 
fate  (but  you  must  of  course  shuffle  the  pack 
yourself),  there  are  but  three  kinds  of  charm- 
ers: dark  (again  the  most  fascinating  and  to 
be  desired),  fair,  and  middling. 

It  is  great  fun  to  watch  little  Miss  Banks  at 
her  necromancy.  She  takes  it  so  earnestly, 
literally  wrenching  the  future's  secrets  from 
their  lair. 

"A  letter  is  coming  to  you  from  some  one," 
she  says.     "An  important  letter." 

And  again,  "I  see  a  voyage  over  water." 

Or  very  seriously,  "There's  a  death." 

You  gasp. 

[249] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

"No,  it's  not  yours.     A  fair  woman's." 
You  laugh.    "Only  a  fair  woman's !"  you  say. 
"Go  on." 

But  the  cards  have  not  only  ambiguities,  but 
strange  reticences. 

"Oh/'  little   Miss  Banks  will  say,  her  eyes 
large  with   excitement,   "there's   a  payment  of 
money  and  a  dark  man." 
"Good,"  you  say. 

"But  I  can't  tell,"  she  goes  on,  "whether 
you  pay  it  to  him  or  he  pays  it  to  you." 

"That's    a    nice    state    of   things,"    you    say, 
becoming  indignant.     "Surely  you  can  tell." 
"No,  I  can't." 

You  begin  to  go  over  your  dark  acquaintances 
who  might  owe  you  money,  and  can  think  of 
none. 

You  then  think  of  your  dark  acquaintances 
to  whom  you  owe  money  and  are  horrified  by 
their  number. 

"Oh,  well,"  you  say,  "the  whole  thing's  rub- 
bish, anyway." 

Little  Miss  Banks's  eyes  dilate  with  pained 
astonishment.  "Rubbish!" — and  she  begins  to 
shuflBe  again. 


[250] 


GENTLEMEN  BOTH 

NOT  all  of  us  have  the  best  manners  al- 
ways about  us.  The  fortunate  are  they 
whose  reaction  is  instant;  but  those  also  are 
fortunate  who^  after  the  first  failure — during 
the  conflict  between,  say,  natural  and  acquired 
feelings — can  recapture  their  best,  too. 

At  a  certain  country  house  where  a  shooting 
party  was  assembled  a  picture  stood  on  an 
easel  in  a  corner  of  the  dining-room.  It  was 
a  noticeable  picture  by  reason  of  its  beauty 
and  also  by  reason  of  a  gash  in  the  canvas. 
Coffee  was  on  the  table  when  one  of  the  guests, 
looking  round  the  walls,  observed  it  for  the  first 
time,  and,  drawing  his  host's  attention  to  its 
excellence,  asked  who  was  the  painter;  and 
the  host,  who  was  an  impulsive,  hearty  fellow, 
full  of  money,  after  supplying  the  informa- 
tion and  corroborating  the  justice  of  the  criti- 
cism, remarked  to  the  whole  company,  "Now 
here's  a  sporting  offer.  You  see  that  cut  across 
the  paint  in  the  middle" — pointing  it  out  as 
he  spoke — "well,  I'll  give  any  one  a  thousand 
pounds  who  can  guess  how  it  was  done." 

[251] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

They  all  rose  and  clustered  before  the  easel; 
for  a  thousand  pounds  are  worth  having  a  try 
for,  even  when  one  is  rich — as  most  of  them 
were. 

"It  was  done  only  last  week,"  the  host  con- 
tinued, "and  it  was  such  a  queer  business  that 
I  don't  intend  to  have  it  repaired.  Now  then, 
all  of  you,  a  thousand  of  the  best  for  the  cor- 
rect answer." 

He  rubbed  his  hands  and  chuckled.  It  was  a 
sure  thing  for  him,  and  there  would  be  a  lot  of 
fun  in  the  suggestions. 

The  guests  having  re-examined  the  cut  with 
minuteness,  one  by  one,  seated  themselves  again, 
and  pencils  and  paper  were  provided  so  that  the 
various  possible  solutions  might  be  written  down. 
The  real  business  then  began — no  sound  but 
pencils   writing   and   the   host   chuckling. 

Now  it  happened  that  one  of  the  party,  a 
year  or  so  before,  had  seen  somewhere  in  York- 
shire a  picture  with  a  not  dissimilar  rent, 
caused,  he  had  been  told,  by  a  panic-stricken 
bird  which  had  blundered  into  the  room  and 
couldn't  get  out  again.  Remembering  this,  and 
remembering  also  that  history  sometimes  re- 
peats itself,  he  wrote  on  his  piece  of  paper  that, 
according  to  his  guess,  the  canvas  was  torn  by 
a  bird  which  had  flown  into  the  room  and  lost 
its  head. 
[252] 


Gentlemen  Both 

All  the  suggestions  having  been  written  down, 
the  host  called  on  their  writers  to  read  them,  a 
jolly,  confident  smile  lighting  up  his  features, 
which  grew  more  jolly  and  more  confident  as 
one  after  another  incorrect  solution  was  tend- 
ered. 

And  then  came  the  turn  of  the  man  who  had 
remembered  about  the  bird,  and  who  happened 
to  be  the  last  of  all.  "My  guess  is,"  he  read 
out,  "that  the  picture  was  damaged  by  a  bird." 

There  was  a  roar  of  laughter,  which  gradu- 
ally subsided  when  it  was  observed  that  the 
host  was  very  far  from  joining  in  it.  In  fact, 
his  face  not  only  had  lost  all  its  good  humour, 
but  was  white  and  tense. 

When  there  was  silence  he  said,  with  a  certain 
biting  shortness:  "Somebody  must  have  told 
you." 

"Nobody  told  me,"  was  the  reply.  "But  you 
don't  really  mean  to  say  I've  guessed  right  .^" 

"If  you  call  it  a  guess — yes,"  said  the  host, 
whose  mortification  had  become  painful  to  wit- 
ness. 

"Well,"  said  the  other  quickly  and  pleasantly, 
"  'guess'  perhaps  isn't  the  right  word,  and,  of 
course,  I  shouldn't  therefore  claim  the  reward. 
You  see — ■ — ,"  and  he  then  explained  how  he 
had  remembered  the  odd  experience  in  York- 
shire, and  in  default  of  any  inventiveness  of  his 

[253] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

own  had  used  it.  "So,  of  course,"  he  added, 
rising  and  moving  towards  the  window,  "the 
offer  is  off.  Remembering  isn't  guessing;  quite 
the  reverse.     What  a  gorgeous  moon !" 

The  others  also  rose,  only  too  willingly,  for 
the  situation  had  become  trying;  the  matter 
dropped,  at  any  rate  as  a  theme  of  general  con- 
versation; and  gradually  and  uncomfortably 
bed-time  was  reached. 

Several  of  the  party  were  at  breakfast  the 
next  morning  when  their  host  made  his  first 
appearance;  and  they  noticed  that  he  had  re- 
gained liis  customary  gay  serenity.  Walking  up 
to  the  guest  whose  memory  had  been  so  em- 
barrassing, he  handed  him  a  slip  of  paper. 

"I'm  sorry,  old  man,"  he  said,  "to  have  been 
in  such  a  muddle  last  night,  but  the  accuracy  of 
that  shot  of  yours  dazed  me.  Of  course  the 
offer  stands.  All  this  cheque  needs  is  for  you 
to  fill  in  the  name  of  whatever  hospital  or 
charity  you  prefer." 

"Thanks,"  said  the  other  as  he  put  it  in  his 
pocket-book. 


[254] 


ON  EPITAPHS 

NOT  long  ago  I  was  staying  in  a  village 
where  the  shortest  cut  to  the  inn  lay 
through  the  churchyard^  and  passing  and  re- 
passing so  often  I  came  to  know  the  dead  in- 
habitants of  the  place  almost  better  than  the 
living.  Not  with  the  penetrating  knowledge  of 
the  author  of  "Spoon  River  Anthology" — that 
very  extraordinary  and  understanding  book, — 
but  in  a  kindly  superficial  way.  Indeed,  con- 
sidering that  they  were  total  strangers  and  their 
acquaintance  not  now  to  be  made  by  any  but 
the  followers  of  those  doughty  knights  of  the 
round  (or  square)  seance  table.  Sir  Oliver  and 
Sir  Conan,  some  of  these  dead  people  were  ab- 
surdly often  in  my  thoughts ;  but  that  was  be- 
cause of  their  names.  Such  names !  Many  of 
course  were  no  longer  legible,  for  Father  Time 
had  either  obliterated  them  with  his  patient  fin- 
ger, dipped  now  in  lichen  and  now  in  moss,  or 
upon  them  his  tears  had  fallen  too  steadily.  But 
many  remained  and  some  of  them  were  wonder- 
ful. Has  it  ever  been  explained  why  the  dead 
have  more  remarkable  names  than  the  living? 
Did  any  one  ever  meet  "in  the  form"  a  Lavender 

[255] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

Wiseways?  Yet  there  was  a  Lavender  Wise- 
ways  lying  beneath  one  of  those  stones.  There 
was  her  sister  too,  lying  close  beside — Lavinia 
Wiseways.  Neither  had  married;  but  then  how 
could  they  have  performed  a  deed  which  would 
have  lost  them  such  distinction !  And  who  now 
exchanges  market  greetings,  with  a  gaitered 
gentleman  named  Paradine  Ebb.''  Yet  once 
there  was  a  Paradine  Ebb,  farmer,  not  such  a 
great  distance  from  London,  to  shake  by  the 
hand,  and  chat  to,  and  buy  fat  stock  from,  and, 
I  hope,  share  a  cordial  glass  with.  And  who — 
but  if  I  continue  I  shall  betray  the  village's 
name,  and  that  is  against  good  manners.  Too 
many  real  names  get  into  print  in  these  inquisi- 
tive days. 

It  was  not  however  of  strange  dead  names  that 
I  was  thinking  when  I  took  up  my  pen,  but  of 
the  epitaphs  on  the  tombstones,  sometimes  so 
brief  and  simple,  sometimes  so  long  and  pom- 
pous, and  almost  always  withholding  everything 
of  real  importance  about  the  occupants  of  the 
narrow  cells  beneath  and  almost  always  affect- 
ing to  despise  the  precious  gift  of  life.  Why 
should  not  some  one,  greatly  daring,  go  so  far 
as  to  bid  the  mason  engrave  a  tribute  to  the 
world  that  is  being  left  behind  ?  Would  that  be 
so  impious?  Tliere  is  no  indication  that  any  of 
these  dead  ever  enjoyed  a  moment. 
[256] 


On  Epitaphs 

Something  like  this,  for  instance — 

Here    Lies 

HENRY   ROBINSON 

Who  lived  in  the  belief — and, 
with    many    failubes,    did    his 

best  to   act   of   to   it that   if 

tou  spend  your  time  in  trying 
to  make  things  \  little  easier 
and  merrier  in  this  world^  the 
next  can   take   care   of  itself. 

The  whole  insincere  suggestion  of  most 
churchyards  now  is  that  life  has  been  spent  in  a 
vale  of  tears:  a  long  tribulation,  merely  a  prep- 
aration for  another  and  better  world.  But  we 
know  that  that  is  not  usually  the  case,  and  we 
know  that  many  lives,  although  unrelated  to 
graveyard  ideas  of  decorum  and  insurance,  are 
happier  than  not.  There  is  in  the  God's  Acre 
of  which  I  am  writing  more  than  one  appeal  to 
the  living  to  be  wary  of  earthly  serenity :  surely 
a  very  unfair  line  for  the  dead  to  take  and  not 
unremindful  of  the  fable  of  the  fox  and  hig 
tail.  An  elaborate  stone  close  by  the  lych  gate 
has  a  series  of  dreary  couplets  warning  the 
passer-by  that  the  next  grave  to  be  dug  may  be 
his;  and  on  the  assumption  that  he  is  being  too 
happy  he  is  adjured  to  a  morbid  thoughtfulness. 
The  dead  might  be  kinder  than  that,  more  gen- 

[257] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

erous,  more   altruistic !      I   should   like   a  head- 
stone to  bear  some  such  motto  as 

"Die  and  Let  Live." 

But  not  only  do  the  epitaphs  suggest  that  life 
below  is  a  snare;  they  are  by  no  means  too 
encouraging  about  the  life  above.  The  spirit 
they  proclaim  is  a  very  poor  one.  Nothing  can 
make  death  attractive;  but  even  if  some  golden- 
mouthed  advocate  should  arise  whose  eloquence 
half  persuaded,  the  churchyard  would  beat  him: 
the  damp  of  it,  the  gloom  of  it,  the  mouldiness 
of  it,  the  pathetic  unconvincing  efforts  at  resig- 
nation which  the  slabs  record !  We  ought  to 
be  braver ;  more  heartening  to  others.  A  rector 
who  allowed  none  but  cheerful  epitaphs  would 
be  worth  his  tithes. 

Would  there  be  any  very  impossible  impro- 
priety in  such  an  inscription  as  this — 

Here  Lies 

JOHN   SMITH 

Who  found  earth  pleasant  and 
rejoiced  in  its  beauties  and  en- 
joyed ITS  savours;  who  loved 
and  was  loved;  and  who  would 
fain  go  on  living.  He  died 
reluctantly,  but  wishes  wkix  to 
all  who  sur\'tv'e  hi  at. 
Carpe   diem. 

[258] 


On  Epitaphs 

Reading  that,  the  stranger  would  not  necessarily 
(I  hope)  be  transformed  into  a  detrimental 
Hedonist. 

And  now  and  then  a  human  foible  might  be 
recorded  by  the  stonemason  without  risk  of 
undermining  society's  foundations.  When  our 
friends  are  dead  why  should  we  not  disclose  a 
little?     Some  secrets  are  better  out.     Here  for 

example — 

Here   Lies 
(in  no  expectation  of  immortality) 

THOMAS   BROM^N 
He      was      no      Friend      of      the 
Church,    but    he     paid     his    way, 
interferred     with     none     of     his 
neighbours,     and     his     word     was 

HIS    BOND. 

What  would  happen  if  Thomas  Brown's  friends 
paid  for  such  lapidary  style  as  that?  Would 
the  world  totter  ?    Again — 

Here    Lies 

MARY  JONES 

The      wife      of      William      Jones. 

Honour     her     memory,     for     she 

was    lenient    when    her    husband 

was  in  liquor. 

I  should  also  like  to  see  memorial  verses  be- 
ginning: 

Physicians  sore 
Long  time  I  bore. 

[2591 


IN  AND  ABOUT  LONDON 


IN  AND  ABOUT  LONDON 


A  LONDON  THRILL 

THE  scene  was  Gerrard  Street:  a  rather 
curious  thoroughfare  notable  for  possess- 
ing three  or  four  restaurants  dear  to  Bohemia, 
the  great  West  End  telephone  exchange,  the 
homes  of  Dryden  and  Edmund  Burke,  a  num- 
ber of  cinema  offices,  and  many  foreign  inhabi- 
tants. 

The  time  was  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon. 
In  the  middle  were  two  or  three  big  vans, 
loading  or  unloading  and  filling  the  roadway, 
thus  cutting  the  street  into  two  so  effectively 
that  I,  approaching  from  the  east,  had  no 
knowledge  of  anything  happening  in  the  west- 
ern half.  I  therefore  attached  no  significance 
to  the  hurrying  steps  of  a  policeman  in  front  of 
me,  but  was  a  little  surprised  to  see  him  pick  his 
way  almost  on  tiptoe  between  the  vans — yet  not 
sufficiently  surprised  to  anticipate  drama. 

But  the  drama  was  there,  awaiting  me^  on  the 
other  side  of  the  vans,  and  the  policeman — this 

[263] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

being  London  drama — was  naturally  one  of  the- 
performers.  For  there  never  was  a  street  play 
yet — comedy,  tragedy,  or  farce — without  a 
policeman  in  the  cast.  It  is  a  convention  to  say 
— as  every  one  has  in  his  time  said  and  will  say 
again — that  a  policeman  is  never  there  when 
he  is  wanted;  but  that  is  true  only  in  the  dull 
sense:  what  we  mean  is  that  the  policeman  is 
never  there  before  the  curtain  rises,  or,  in  other 
words,  in  time  to  prevent  the  performance  al- 
together. How  tame  if  he  were!  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  by  delaying  his  arrival  until  the  affair 
is  in  good  train  he  takes  his  proper  part  as  a 
London  entertainer;  that  is  to  say,  he  is  there 
when  he  is  wanted — wanted  to  complete  the 
show. 

It  was  thus  on  the  present  occasion. 

On  passing  the  vans  I  was  suddenly  aware 
that  the  curtain  had  risen ;  for  on  the  south 
pavement  were  some  fifteen  or  twenty  people 
watching  two  women  at  the  house  opposite,  one 
of  whom,  a  young  one  in  a  long  brown  overcoat, 
was  trying  to  get  past  the  half-opened  door, 
while  the  other,  an  older  one,  in  black,  repulsed 
her  from  within.  Just  as  I  arrived  the  police- 
man darted  from  between  the  vans,  seized  the 
young  woman's  arm,  and  said,  "That's  enough 
of  that.  You  come  along  with  me."  Her  re- 
luctance was  intense,  but  she  did  not  resist; 
[264] 


A  London  Thrill 

in  fact,  she  had  about  her  a  suggestion  of  hav- 
ing expected  it. 

One  of  the  spectators  remarked,  "Quite  time, 
too";  another  added,  "She  was  arstin'  for  it." 
The  other  woman  disappeared  into  the  house, 
and  we  all  began  to  move  in  a  westward  direc- 
tion. 

Had  this  young  woman,  the  nature  of  whose 
offence  I  did  not  learn,  been  a  malefactor  of 
any  importance  she  would  have  been  hustled 
into  a  cab  and  lost  to  sight.  Happily,  however, 
she  was  only  a  common  brawler  or  disturber  of 
the  peace,  and  therefore  there  was  no  cab.  I 
say  happily,  because  it  is  rarely  that  one  sees 
people  so  cheered  up  on  a  dull  cold  day  as  every 
one  seemed  to  be  who  caught  sight  of  her  be- 
tween Gerrard  Street,  where  the  policeman  put 
that  deadly  grip  upon  her,  and  Vine  Street, 
where  she  vanished  into  the  station.  Watching 
the  effect  of  her  impact  on  the  street,  "Captured 
to  make  a  London  holiday"  is  the  form  of  words 
that  ran  through  my  mind. 

When  we  turned  from  Gerrard  Street  into 
Wardour  Street  we  were  about  thirty  strong. 
When  we  turned  from  Wardour  Street  into 
Shaftesbury  Avenue  we  were  forty-five  strong, 
for  as  the  glad  news  spread  we  increased 
amazingly.  It  is  a  point  of  honour  with 
Londoners    to    accompany   the    fallen    on   their 

[265] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

way.  Not  to  jeer  at  tliem,  although  our  absence 
would  be  kinder,  nor  to  sympathize  with  them ; 
merely  to  be  in  whatever  is  going  on.  If  our 
prevalent  expression  is  one  of  amusement,  that 
is  because  we  are  being  entertained,  and  enter- 
tained free.     No  malice. 

And  so  we  proceeded.  Every  now  and  then 
the  young  woman,  who  had  one  of  those  thin 
white  faces  that  often  mark  the  excitable  and 
even  the  not  quite  sane,  and  who,  I  fancy,  had 
been  drinking,  would  have  stopped,  to  enlarge 
upon  her  grievance;  but  the  policeman  urged 
her  ever  onward,  always  with  those  terrible 
official  fingers  encircling  her  arm. 

The  retinue  became  alarming,  like  a  food 
queue  on  the  march.  Little  boys  who  a  moment 
ago  had  no  hopes  of  any  such  luck  screamed  the 
tidings  to  other  little  boys  in  the  by-ways  and 
these,  in  tlieir  turn,  shrieked  out  to  others,  so 
that  reinforcements  scampered  down  Rupert 
Street  and  Great  Windmill  Street  to  swell  the 
concourse.  In  one  little  boy  I  watched  horror 
struggle  with  joy,  "They've  pinched  a  lady!" 
he  exclaimed  in  shocked  tones,  and  then  hurried 
to  the  head  of  the  line  to  miss  nothing  of  the 
outrage.  The  people  on  the  tops  of  motor-buses 
stood  up.  At  Piccadilly  Circus  the  traffic  was 
suspended. 

A  pathetic  young  woman  in  a  long  brown  over- 
[266] 


A  London  Thrill 

coat  having  tried  for  just  a  few  moments  too 
long  to  enter  a  house  in  Gerrard  Street  (to 
which,  for  all  I  know,  she  had  a  perfect  right), 
all  London  was  disorganised ! 

And  so  she  crossed  Regent  Street,  passed  the 
Piccadilly  Hotel,  and  at  the  alley  leading  to 
Vine  Street  was  swallowed  up.  The  most  eager 
of  the  adults  and  all  the  small  boys  penetrated 
the  alley  too,  but  the  rest,  with  one  last  longing 
look,  melted  away  and  resumed  the  ordinary  te- 
dium of  life.     The  thrill  was  over.  .   .  . 

But  the  squalor  of  that  march!  What  she 
had  done  I  have  no  notion,  but  she  was  well 
punished  for  it  long  before  Vine  Street  was 
reached.  I  hope  that  magistrates  sometimes 
take  these  distances  into  consideration. 


[2671 


II 

A  DOOR-PLATE 

BUT  for  having  lived  in  London  long  enough 
to  know  the  rules,  or,  in  other  words,  to 
be  aware  that  nothing  is  out  of  place  there,  I 
might  have  thought  of  the  door-plate  which,  in 
Fetter  Lane,  suddenly  caught  my  eye  as  an  in- 
congruity. But  no;  I  am  inured,  and  therefore 
I  merely  looked  at  it  twice  instead  of  only  once, 
and  passed  on  with  a  head  full  of  mental  and 
intensely  uncivic  pictures  of  undauntable  men, 
identical  in  patience  and  hopefulness,  standing 
hour  after  hour  at  the  ends  of  piers  all  round 
ours  coasts,  watching  their  lines.  For  the  words 
on  the  door-plate  were  these:  "British  Sea 
Anglers'  Society." 

I  shall  continue  to  deny  that  the  notice  was 
out  of  place,  but  a  certain  oddity  (not  uncommon 
in  London)  may  be  conceded,  for  Fetter  Lane 
otherwise  has  less  marine  association  than  any 
street  that  one  could  name;  and  angling  is  too 
placid,  too  philosophic,  too  reclusive  a  sport  to 
be  represented  by  an  office  absolutely  on  the 
fringe  of  that  half-square  mile  of  the  largest 
city  in  the  world  given  over  to  fierce,  feverish 
[268] 


A  Door-Plate 

activity;  where  printing  presses  are  at  their 
thickest,  busy  and  clattering,  day  and  night,  in 
the  task  of  providing  Britons  with  all — and 
a  little  more — of  the  news,  and  a  fresh  sensation 
for  every  breakfast  table.  Except  that  upon 
the  breakfast  table  is  often  to  be  found  the  her- 
ring in  one  or  other  of  its  posthumous  meta- 
morphoses, there  is  no  connecting  link  whatever. 
And  why  one  has  to  belong  to  a  society  with  a 
door-plate  in  Fetter  Lane  before  drawing  mack- 
erel from  Pevensey  Bay,  or  whiting  from  the 
Solent,  is  a  question  to  answer  which  is  beside 
the  mark ;  although  that  fish  can  be  caught  from 
the  sea  without  membership  of  this  fraternity  I 
myself  can  testify — for  was  I  not  once  in  the 
English  Channel  in  a  small  boat  in  the  company 
of  two  conger  eels  and  a  dogfish,  whose  noisy 
and  arobatic  reluctance  to  die  turned  what  ought 
to  have  been  a  party  of  pleasure  into  misery  and 
shame;  and  shall  I  ever  forget  the  look  of  dis- 
may (a  little  touched  by  triumph)  on  the  face 
of  a  humane  English  girl  visiting  Ireland,  when, 
after  she  had  pulled  in  an  unresisting  pollock 
at  the  end  of  a  trawl  line  and  the  boatman  had 
taken  it  from  the  hook  and  beaten  it  sickeningly 
to  death  with  an  iron  thole  pin,  she  heard  him 
say,  as  later,  he  handed  the  fish  to  a  colleague 
on  the  landing-stage,  "The  young  lady  killed 
it"? 

[269] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

But  this  is  not  London — far,  indeed,  from  it! 
— although  an  excellent  example  of  London's 
peculiar  and  precious  gift  of  starting  the  mind 
on  extra-mural  adventures.  The  sea,  however, 
is,  in  reality  too,  very  near  the  city,  and  the 
closeness  of  London's  relations  with  it  can  be 
tested  in  many  delightful  ways.  Although,  for 
examijle,  the  natural  meeting-place  of  those  two 
old  cronies.  Father  Thames  and  Neptune,  is 
somewhere  about  Gravesend,  Neptune,  as  a  mat- 
ter of  fact,  comes  for  a  friendly  glass  with  Gog 
(I  almost  wrote  Grog)  and  Magog  right  up  to 
town.  If  you  lean  over  the  eastern  parapet  of 
London  Bridge,  just  under  the  clock  which  has 
letters  instead  of  numerals,  you  will  see  the 
stevedores  unloading  all  kinds  of  wonderful  sea- 
borne exotic  merchandise.  The  other  morning 
I  was  the  guest  of  a  skipper  of  one  of  these 
vessels,  and  sat  in  his  cabin  (which  smelt,  au- 
thentically, of  tobacco  smoke  as  only  a  cabin 
can,)  with  his  first  engineer,  and  ate  ship's  bis- 
cuits and  heard  first-hand  stories  of  the  sinking 
of  the  Titanic,  together  with  details  of  a  ro- 
mance in  the  European  quarter  of  a  certain 
African  port  all  ready  to  the  magic  hand  of 
Mr.  Conrad.  Twelve  minutes  later  I  was  in  a 
club  in   Pall  Mall! 

But  there  is  no  need  to  enter  a  cabin,  although 
that  is,  of  course,  the  pleasantest  way,  for  if 
[270] 


A  Door-Plate 

you  wander  down  to  the  Tower  you  can  sit  on 
an  old  cannon  on  the  quay  and  have  the  music 
of  cordage  in  your  ears,  and  if  you  climb  to  the 
top  of  the  Tower  Bridge  the  scene  below  you  has 
the  elements  of  a  thousand  yarns.  And  there 
are  streets  near  the  docks  which  might  have  been 
cut  out  of  Plymouth  or  Bristol.  Now  and  then, 
indeed,  London  may  be  said  to  be  actually  on 
the  sea. 

Such  excursions  are  for  the  hours  of  light. 
In  the  hours  of  darkness  I  used  to  have,  years 
ago,  a  favourite  river-side  refuge.  In  those 
days,  when  cabmen  asked  for  custom  instead  of 
repulsing  it,  and  public-houses  remained  open 
until  half-past  12  a.  m.,  I  had  for  fine  summer 
nights,  after  a  dull  play  or  dinner,  a  diversion 
that  never  failed;  and  this  was  to  make  my  way 
— if  possible  with  a  stranger  to  such  sights  and 
scenes,  and  an  impressionable  one — to  the  Angel 
at  Rotherhithe  and  watch  the  shipping  for  an 
hour.  The  Angel  is  difficult  of  access,  but  once 
there  you  might  be  at  Valparaiso.  It  is  a  quar- 
ter of  a  mile  below  the  Tower  Bridge  on  the 
south  bank,  with  a  wooden  balcony  overhanging 
the  water,  and  a  mass  of  dark  creaking  barges 
moored  below.  Here  on  the  balcony  we  used  to 
sit,  while  the  great  ships  stole  by  at  quarter 
speed,  groping  for  their  moorings,  and  strange 
lights    appeared    and    disappeared,    and    voices 

[271] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

hailed  each  other  and  were  answered,  and  little 
sinister  rowing  boats  moved  here  and  there  on 
unknown  missions,  and  perhaps  an  excursion 
steamer,  back  very  late  from  Margate,  with  its 
saloon  all  lighted  and  a  banjo  bravely  making 
merry  to  the  bitter  end,  would  glide  past  towards 
London  Bridge;  and  such  is  the  enchantment  of 
ships  and  shipping  that  not  even  she  could  break 
the  spell. 

May  the  Angel  survive  the  deluge!  If  not,  I 
must  carry  out  the  dream  of  my  life,  and  make 
friends  with  the  captain  of  a  Thames  tug. 


[272] 


Ill 

ANGEL  ADVOCACY 

FOR  more  than  half  a  century  the  humourist 
gravelled  for  matter  has  found  the  ugliness 
of  the  Albert  Memorial  an  easy  escape  from  his 
difficulties.     To  mention  it  is  to  raise  a  laugh. 

But  is  it  so  ugly? 

Conceiving  that  the  time  was  ripe  to  put  my 
own  authentic  impressions  above  hearsay,  I  have 
made  a  pilgrimage  to  this  shrine  and  subjected 
it  to  the  most  careful  examination. 

I  was  amply  repaid.  Alike  when  resting  on 
the  comfortable  seats  around  its  enclosure,  tak- 
ing in  the  structure  as  a  whole,  or  when  scru- 
tinising its  sculptures  at  close  range,  I  was 
pleasantly  entertained,  and  I  came  to  the  de- 
cision that  the  Albert  Memorial  not  only  has 
more  in  it  to  attract  than  to  repel,  but  is  a  very 
remarkable  summary  of  the  triumphs  of  Science 
and  Art:  as  good  a  lesson  book  as  bronze  and 
stone  could  compile. 

But  even  if  this  judgment  is  wrong,  and  the 
Albert  Memorial  really  deserves  the  facile  exe- 
cration by  you  and  me  which  so  long  has  been 

[273] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

its  portion,  that  is  not  all.  The  subject  is  by 
no  means  closed.  For  you  and  I  are  not  every- 
body ;  we  are  getting  old  and  tired  and  exacting, 
and  we  are  more  disposed  to  complain  of  what 
we  miss  than  to  be  happy  with  what  we  find. 
There  are,  in  the  world,  others  whose  attitude  is 
simpler  than  ours,  whose  views  quite  possibly  are 
more  important,  to  whose  by  no  means  foolish 
eyes  the  Albert  Memorial  is  beyond  praise — 
adequate,  stimulating,  splendid.  I  mean  chil- 
dren. 

Sir  Gilbert  Scott,  the  designer  of  the  Albert 
Memorial,  knowing,  either  consciously  or  sub- 
consciously— but  the  result  is  the  same — that  the 
principal  frequenters  of  Kensington  Gardens  are 
children,   behaved   accordingly. 

Those  coloured  pinnacles,  those  queens  and 
angels  high  up  in  the  sky  under  the  golden  cross, 
those  gay  mosaics  against  the  blue,  fill  children 
with  wondering  delight.  The  emblematical 
groups  of  statuary — America  with  its  buffalo 
and  Red  Indian,  Asia  with  its  elephant,  Africa 
with  its  giant  negro — must  be  thrilling,  too;  and 
when  it  comes  to  the  great  men  around  the  base 
— ^the  musicians  (Gluck's  head  is  really  mas- 
terly), the  poets,  with  Homer  between  Shakes- 
peare and  Milton,  the  painters,  with  Turner 
transformed  to  elegance,  the  architects,  the 
sculptors,  all  so  capable  and  calm  and  bland, 
[274] 


Angel  Advocacy 

and  all  exactly  the  same  height — I  am  with  the 
children  in  their  admiration. 

This  mass  meeting  of  the  intelligentsia  is  a 
reminder  of  all  that  is  best  in  literature  and  art, 
but  most  noticeably  does  it  bring  back  the 
memory  of  great  buildings — an  unusual  empha- 
sis being  laid  upon  those  commonly  anonymous 
and  taken-for-granted  masters,  the  architects. 
Indeed,  such  is  this  emphasis  that  Giotto  and 
Michael  Angelo  each  comes  into  the  scheme 
twice,  once  as  painter  and  again  for  structural 
genius. 

The  Albert  Memorial  contains  all  the  ma- 
terials for  a  pageant;  it  is,  in  fact,  a  pageant 
crystallised;  and  if  the  myriad  figures  in  the 
frieze  and  in  the  groups  were  one  moonlight 
night  released  by  the  magician  who  turned  them 
to  stone  and,  coming  to  life,  were  to  march 
through  Kensington  Gardens,  they  would  make, 
not  only  an  impressive  sight,  as  they  wound 
among  the  trees,  with  Asia's  elephant  leading, 
but  as  representative  a  procession  of  the  shining 
ones  of  the  earth  as  Mr.  Louis  Napoleon  Parker 
could  invent. 

It  is  my  belief  that  if  only  a  few  jackdaws 
could  be  persuaded  to  make  their  home  in  its 
higher  crevices,  the  Albert  Memorial  would  auto- 
matically take  its  place  among  the  worshipful 
structures  and  be  mocked  at  no  more.     For  that 

[275] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

is  wljat  is  needed.  Beneath  the  jackdaw's  wing, 
where  so  many  of  our  cathedrals  repose,  sanc- 
tity and  authority  would  be  conferred  upon  it. 
As  one  looks  up  to  the  golden  summit,  one  is 
conscious  of  the  absence  of  this  discriminating 
and  aloof  yet  humanizing  bird,  black  against  the 
sky,  critical  if  not  actually  censorious  in  his 
speech,  and  an  unmistakable  indication  that  the 
building  is  noteworthy. 


[276] 


IV 

THE  SOANE  HOGARTHS 

NO  sooner  was  Sir  John  Soane's  Museum  in 
Lincoln's  Inn  Fields  open  again,  after  its 
long  closure,  than  I  hastened  there  to  renew  ac- 
quaintance with  that  remarkable,  almost  incred- 
ible, pictorial  document,  Hogarth's  "Election" 
series.  Modern  elections  are  frequent  enough 
to  add  piquancy  to  the  comparison,  but  apart 
from  that  it  is  instructive  to  see  in  what  spirit 
our  not  very  remote  ancestors  approached  the 
ordeal  of  being  returned  to  Parliament.  The 
world  may  not  have  advanced  very  perceptibly 
in  many  directions,  but,  if  Hogarth  is  trust- 
worthy, only  a  master  of  paradox  could  success- 
fully maintain  that  no  progress  is  to  be  noted 
in  the  manufacture  of  legislators. 

Not,  however,  that  everything  here  depicted  is 
obsolete.  Far  from  it.  The  groundwork  is  the 
same,  and  probably  will  always  be  so,  but  there 
is  now  less  coarseness.  There  is  also  more 
order,  more  method.  And  one  has,  furthermore, 
to  remember  that  Hogarth  was  a  synthetic 
satirist,  and  a  rather  wicked  wit  to  boot.  He 
assembled  his  puppets  rather  than  found  them 

[277] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

all  together,  and  it  aTnnsed  him  to  heighten  ef- 
fects and  to  score  off  his  pet  butts  when  he 
could.  All  these  allowances,  however,  being 
made,  I  fancy  that  the  "Election"  series  has  a 
good  deal  of  old  England  in  it. 

The  series  begins  with  the  entertainment  given 
by  the  two  candidates  of  the  Court  Party  to  their 
supporters,  and  even  among  Hogarth's  works 
this  scene  is  remarkable  for  the  number  of 
things  that  are  occurring  at  once.  No  one  ex- 
celled our  English  master  in  this  crowding  of 
incident,  not  even  Breughel  or  Teniers.  While 
one  of  the  candidates  is,  doubtless  for  strictly 
political  reasons,  permitting  himself  to  be  ca- 
ressed by  an  old  woman,  a  small  girl  abstracts 
his  gold  ring,  and  a  man  singes  his  wig  with 
a  clay  pipe.  In  the  street  outside  the  room  is  a 
procession  of  the  rival  party,  throwing  through 
the  window  half-bricks,  one  of  which  is  seen  to 
have  just  smashed  a  gentleman's  head,  while 
another  gentleman,  injured  at  a  slightly  more 
remote  period  of  the  campaign,  is  being  anointed 
with  spirits  without,  while  he  consumes  spirits 
within.  At  the  end  of  the  table  the  mayor  of  the 
independent  borough,  having  been  reduced  by 
too  many  oysters  and  too  much  liquor  to  a  state 
of  collapse,  is  being  bled  by  a  surgeon.  An  or- 
chestra, including  a  left-handed  fiddleress  and 
the  bagpipes,  plays  throughout;  and  a  small  boy, 
[278] 


The  Soane  Hogarths 

in  spite  of  the  mayor's  condition,  continues  to 
mix  punch  in  a  mash  tub.     All  this  at  once ! 

That  was  overnight.  The  next  day  the  can- 
vassing begins,  and  it  is  superfluous  to  state  that 
bribery  and  corruption  are  rife.  Here,  again,  is 
a  wealth  of  synchronous  occurrence.  On  the  left 
are  seen  two  gay  ladies  persuading  one  of  the 
candidates  to  buy  trinkets  for  them  from  a  ped- 
lar. That  could  hardl}^  be  done  to-day,  at  any 
rate  so  openly;  but  another  of  the  incidents  is  of 
all  time:  a  conversation  between  two  men,  a 
barber  and  a  cobbler,  in  which  the  barber  ex- 
plains how  a  certain  naval  engagement  was  won, 
symbolising  the  ships  by  pieces  of  a  broken  clay 
pipe,  very  much  as  tap-room  tacticians  for  many 
years  to  come  will  be  reconstructing  the  battle 
of  Jutland  or  the  retreat  from  Mons. 

Then  the  polling.  Here  is  more  simultaneous 
confusion.  In  a  panic  the  agent  has  collected 
every  possible  voter,  including  the  maimed,  the 
blind,  and  even  the  idiotic,  and  they  are  attest- 
ing before  the  officer,  while  protests  against 
their  validity  as  voters  are  being  urged  by  the 
opposite  party's  lawyer.  The  candidates  them- 
selves are  on  the  hustings,  and  in  the  distance 
Britannia's  coach  has  broken  down ! 

Finally,  we  see  the  Chairing  of  the  Members 
— one  of  whom  is  depicted  in  the  foreground, 
very   insecure  on  his   crazy  throne,  while  the 

[279] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

shadow  of  the  other's  approach  is  visible  on  a 
wall.  That  chairing  has  gone  out  should  be  a 
source  of  extraordinary  relief  at  Westminster. 
Indeed,  were  it  still  the  custom,  many  a  modern 
man — and  certainly  all  the  fat  ones — would 
decide  to  seek  fame  elsewhere  than  in  Parlia- 
ment. Hogarth's  candidate  was  peculiarly  un- 
fortunate in  his  bearers,  one  of  whom  has  just 
been  hit  on  the  head  by  a  flail,  and  another  has 
collided  with  an  old  woman  who  was  thrown 
down  by  a  runaway  litter  of  pigs.  Meanwhile, 
the  man  with  the  flail  fights  a  sailor  with  a 
cudgel,  the  cause  of  the  combat  being  appar- 
ently the  presence  of  a  performing  bear  and  a 
monkey;  and,  overcome  by  the  fracas,  a  lady 
faints.  Elsewhere,  in  the  inn  on  the  left,  the 
defeated  party  are  consoling  themselves  with  a 
banquet,  a  practice  that  has  by  no  means  died 
out. 

Only  those  who  have  been  through  the  agonies 
and  excitements  of  an  election  can  say  how  far 
Hogarth  has  ceased  to  be  a  faithful  delineator 
of  his  fellow-countrymen;  but  one  thing  is  cer- 
tain, and  that  is  that  time  has  done  nothing  to 
impair  the  liveliness  of  his  record. 


[280] 


V 

GREENWICH  HOSPITAL 

AFTER  being  shut  for  some  years — to  pro- 
tect it  from  certain  dissatisfied  ladies  who 
in  the  dim  and  distant  past  took  it  out  of  pic- 
tures if  they  did  not  get  the  vote — thq  Painted 
Hall  at  Greenwich  was  again  opened  in  1919? 
not,  I  hope,  to  close  its  doors  to  the  public  any 
more.  All  people  interested  in  our  naval  his- 
tory and  the  men  who  made  it  must  acquire  the 
Greenwich  habit  (although  whitebait  and  turtle 
soup  are  no  longer  available  to  sustain  them  at 
the  adjacent  "Ship"),  but  in  particular  should 
the  Nelson  devotees  be  happy,  for  the  Painted 
Hall  is  rich  in  portraits  of  him,  portraits  of  his 
friends,  pictures  of  scenes  in  his  life,  pictures 
of  his  death,  and  personal  relics.  Indeed  this 
Hall  is  to  Nelson  what  the  Invalides  is  to  Na- 
poleon. Sir  John  Thornhill  (with  whose  daugh- 
ter Hogarth  ran  away)  may  have  covered  its 
walls  and  its  ceiling  with  Stuarts  and  allegory 
— at  three  pounds  the  square  yard  for  the  ceil- 
ing work  and  one  pound  for  the  walls — but  it  is 
not  of  Stuarts  and  allegory  tliat  one  thinks,  it  is 
of  the  most  fascinating  and  romantic  and  sym- 

[281] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

pathetic  of  British  heroes  and  the  greatest  of 
our  admirals. 

Nelson  is  brought  very  near  us.  Among  the 
personal  relies  are  tlie  very  clothes  he  was  wear- 
ing when  he  died  on  the  Victory,  the  codicil  to 
his  will,  written  in  his  big  left-hand  characters 
and  witnessed  by  the  friend,  Captain  Hardy, 
in  whose  arms  he  sank.  On  a  neighbouring  wall 
is  Turner's  great  lurid  painting  of  the  Victory 
in  action,  while  elsewhere  in  the  Museum  will 
be  found  a  model  of  the  whole  battle,  with  the 
Victory  closely  engaged  with  the  Redoubtable, 
from  whose  mizzen-top  the  fatal  bullet  is  sup- 
posed to  have  been  fired. 

There  are  man}^  other  intimate  souvenirs ;  and 
once  there  were  more,  but  thieves  intervened. 
From  those  stolen  in  a  burglary  many  years  ago 
(the  windows  have  since  had  bars  put  to  them) 
the  only  one  to  be  regained  was  Nelson's  gold 
watch ;  and  this  was  found — where  do  you  think  ? 
Hidden  in  a  concertina  somewhere  in  Australia. 
But  after  those  wanderings  and  vicissitudes  it 
now  reposes  again  in  safety  in  the  Painted  Hall, 
for  all  hero-worshippers  to  covet. 

Complete  as  the  Nelson  collection  appears  to 
be,  one  realises,  on  reflection,  that  only  as  a 
sailor  is  he  celebrated  here.  We  see  him  in 
every  aspect  of  his  fighting  career;  we  see  his 
friends:  sturdy  old  William  Locker,  who  was  a 
[282] 


Greenwich  Hospital 

governor  of  this  Hospital,  and  others ;  we  see 
his  admirals  and  captains.  B  it  of  Emma  Ham- 
ilton no  trace! 

The  Painted  Hall,  from  Wren's  design,  was 
built  by  William  and  Mary.  The  Museum  fills 
several  rooms  in  an  adjacent  building  which  was 
to  have  been  a  riverside  palace  for  Charles  II. 
It  is  notable  chiefly  for  its  relics  of  the 
other  hero  of  Greenwich  Hospital,  Sir  John 
Franklin.  It  is  also  rich  in  models  of  ships,  but 
of  models  of  ships  I  personally  can  very  quickly 
have  a  surfeit;  rather  would  I  sit  beside  the 
Thames  and  watch  the  real  vessels  go  by — the 
big  tramp  steamers  homing  laden  from  abroad 
or  leaving  in  ballast  for  the  open  sea;  the  little 
busy  tugs,  with  their  retinue  of  lighters ;  and  the 
brown-sailed  barges  moving  swiftly  with  the 
stream.  The  other  day  there  was  a  merry 
breeze  under  a  cloudless  sky,  and  the  air  was 
filled  with  the  music  of  the  Greenwich  sym- 
phony, which  is  played  by  an  orchestra  entirely 
composed  of  foghorns  and  hooters. 

But  Greenwich  is  amphibious.  The  river  may 
not  be  for  all  tastes;  there  is  the  park  too,  with 
its  avenues  climbing  to  the  heights  of  Black- 
heath.  The  deer  have  gone;  but  the  Observa- 
tory remains,  for  the  accurate  adjustment  of 
watches,  and  there  is  the  distant  prospect  of 
London  of  which  the  great  landscape  painters 

[283] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

used  to  be  so  fond,  from  the  corner  of  the  ter- 
race. It  is  much  the  same  as  when  Turner  and 
others  limned  it,  save  that  to-day  the  dome  of 
St  Paul's  seems  to  rise  from  the  very  middle  of 
the  Tower  Bridge. 


[284] 


VI 

KEW  IN  APRIL 

KEW  GARDENS  in  the  old  days  used  to 
be  largely  a  German  paradise,  for  the 
Teutons  in  our  midst  found  them  more  like  their 
own  pleasaunces,  although  wanting  in  beer,  than 
any  other  London  resort.  But  when  I  was  last 
there,  in  1919,  I  heard  no  German  tones.  A  few 
French  voices  mingled  with  the  thrushes  and 
blackbirds;  and  a  number  of  American  soldiers, 
not  unaccompanied  by  British  beauty,  sat  on  se- 
cluded seats.  The  rest  of  us  were  natives, 
promenading  with  true  national  decorum,  care- 
fully obeying  all  the  laws  concerning  birds'- 
nesting,  throwing  paper  about,  smoking,  and 
(in  the  glass-houses)  keeping  to  the  right,  with- 
out the  observance  of  which  scientific  botany 
cannot  prosper.  And  for  some  reason  or  other 
(connected  no  doubt  with  the  universal  advance 
in  the  cost  of  life  which  has  been  agreed  upon 
as  necessary  or  salutary)  we  were  all  forced  to 
pay  a  penny  for  admission. 

It  annoys  me  to  think  that  not  until  the 
Germans  vacated  the  gardens  was  this  entrance 
fee  charged.     To  them  (as  to  us  for  generations) 

[285] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

Kew  was  free;  now  that  they  have  disappeared, 
one  of  the  results  of  their  provocative  belliger- 
ence is  that  it  is  free  no  longer ! 

Although  early  yet  both  for  ilower  and  leaf, 
the  daffodils  were  already  millions  strong,  and 
would  be  stronger;  in  the  rock  garden  the  saxi- 
frage's tender  mauve  clusters  were  to  be  seen, 
and  there  was  a  patch  of  the  lovely  Antennaria 
Plantagenia  at  its  best.  But  the  most  beautiful 
object  at  the  moment — and  that  which  I  went 
especially  to  see — was  the  Yulan,  the  Chinese 
magnolia.  Magnolia  conspicua,  in  nearly  full 
bloom.  Imagine  a  great  tree  with  black  boughs 
and  twigs  exquisitely  disposed,  from  which  burst 
ten  thousand  lilies  of  a  dazzling  purity.  No 
buds,  no  leaves ;  nothing  but  these  myriad  serene 
white  flowers  springing  from  the  hard  wood. 
The  position  of  the  tree  adds  to  the  strangeness 
and  beauty  of  it,  for  it  is  remote  from  anything 
formal,  between  the  biggest  glass-house  and  the 
edge  of  the  arboretum.  On  Saturday,  seen 
against  an  indigo  thunderbank,  it  was  unearthly 
in  its  luminosity. 

I  have  to  thank  the  rain  for  driving  me  into 
the  Royal  Palace,  which,  though  I  have  known 
Kew  for  so  many  years,  I  had  never  entered 
before.  In  this  pleasant  mansion,  red  brick 
without  and  white  panelling  within,  and  smaller 
than  would  satisfy  the  requirements  of  any  war 
[286] 


Kew  in  April 

profiteer  to-day,  poor  old  George  III.  passed 
part  of  the  clouded  evening  of  his  long  reign. 
The  rooms  retain  certain  of  their  pictures — 
chiefly  Dutch  flower  and  bird  subjects,  very 
gloomy  and  congested,  and  a  large  portrait  of 
"Farmer  George,"  done  by  tlie  famous  Miss  Lin- 
wood  in  woolwork — and  there  are  a  few  pieces 
of  dreadful  ancient  furniture  in  one  of  the 
Queen's  apartments ;  but  otherwise  they  are 
empty. 

In  spite  of  the  associations  of  the  palace — the 
deranged  old  monarch  and  his  stuffy  Charlotte 
of  Mecklenburg-Strelitz  (recollections  of  Fanny 
Burney's  "Diary"  and  of  Peter  Pindar's  "Lou- 
siad"  kept  chasing  each  other  through  my  mind) 
— the  general  feeling  in  it  is  one  of  cheerful- 
ness, the  result,  I  fancy,  as  much  of  the  pro- 
portions and  whiteness  of  the  rooms  as  of  its 
situation  in  the  green  sanctuary. 


[287] 


VII 
ROYAL  WINDSOR 

ON  a  Saturday  in  March,  when  the  skj 
was  of  dazzling  brilliance  and  a  wind  of 
devilish  malignancy  blew  from  the  Arctic  re- 
gions, I  went  to  Windsor,  in  order  to  compare 
the  castle  as  it  is  with  the  castle  as  Turner  saw 
it,  and  to  see  if  it  is  true,  as  a  landscape  expert 
assures  me,  that  the  heightening  of  the  towers 
has  ruined  it.  Studying  the  castle  from  various 
points  of  view,  I  was  consistently  impressed  by 
its  adequacy,  its  mediaeval  dominance,  and  its 
satisfying  solidity. 

Spring  being  so  bittcj  'y  cold,  I  lef^  the 
streets,  where  there  is  no  central  heating,  and 
where  I  could  catch  no  glimpse  of  any  one  in  the 
least  like  Mistress  Anne  Page,  and  took  refuge 
first  in  St.  George's  Chapel  and  then  in  the  State 
Apartments.  The  chapel  as  a  whole  grows  in 
beauty,  even  though  new  monuments  interrupt 
its  lines.  The  light,  coming  from  a  sky  scoured 
by  the  northern  breeze,  was  of  the  most  lucid, 
so  that  every  detail  of  the  lovely  ceiling  was 
unusually  visible,  while  even  in  the  sombre  choir, 
with  its  dark  stalls  and  hanging  banners  and 
[288] 


Royal  Windsor 

memorials  of  the  Knights  of  the  Garter,  one 
could  see  almost  distinctly.  It  is  interesting  to 
have  as  near  London  as  this  a  sacred  building  so 
like  those  which  we  normally  do  not  enter  until 
we  have  crossed  the  Channel. 

I  was  alone  in  the  chapel,  but  in  the  State 
Apartments  made  one  of  a  party  of  thirty  to 
forty,  chiefly  soldiers,  led  round  by  a  guide. 
Anything  less  like  Harrison  Ainsworth  than  this 
guide  I  cannot  imagine ;  or,  indeed,  the  inside  of 
any  castle  less  like  the  fateful  and  romantic  for- 
tress of  that  storyteller's  dream.  Henry  VIII's 
suit  of  armour  we  certainly  saw,  but  the  guide's 
hero  is  a  later  king,  George  IV.,  who  subjected 
every  room  to  his  altering  hand.  Of  Heme  the 
Hunter  there  was  not  a  sign.  The  most  sinister 
thing  there  was  the  bed  in  the  Council  Chamber 
where  visiting  monarchs  (referred  to  by  the 
guide  as  "The  Royals")  sleep,  one  of  whom  not 
so  very  long  ago  was  the  Kaiser.  "I  wish  he 
was  in  it  now,"  a  bloodthirsty  tripper  muttered 
darkly  in  my  ear. 

The  King's  furniture  struck  me  as  too  ornate, 
but  he  has  some  wonderful  pictures.  The  guide 
seemed  to  dwell  with  most  affection  upon  a  land- 
scape by  Benjamin  West,  but  I  remember  with 
more  vividness  and  pleasure  a  series  of  portraits 
of  Henrietta,  queen  of  Charles  I.,  by  Van  Dyck: 
one  by  the  door,  and  two  others  flanking  the  fire- 

[289] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

place  of  the  superb  Van  Dyck  room.  There  is 
also  a  Rubens  room  containing,  among  many 
more  pretentious  things,  a  fascinating  portrait 
of  the  painter's  second  wife  and  a  family  group 
devised  on  what  was,  to  me,  a  new  principle. 
The  parents  are  here  seen  in  the  company  of 
their  ten  children ;  but,  if  the  guide  is  to  be  be- 
lieved, on  the  original  canvas  only  the  parents 
and  a  small  proportion  of  this  brood  were  de- 
picted, space  being  left  for  the  insertion  of  the 
others  as  year  by  year  they  made  their  appear- 
ance. The  scheme  offers  problems.  Since  the 
eldest  child  looks  ten  or  eleven  and  the  youngest 
is  a  baby,  we  must  suppose  (always  if  the  guide 
is  not  misinformed)  that  the  painter  added  age- 
ing touches  to  the  whole  group  at  each  new 
sitting. 

When  one  limits  in  packs  there  is  little  oppor- 
tunity to  examine  crowded  walls,  and  there  were 
many  pictures  of  which  I  should  like  to  see  more 
at  leisure.  Among  them  was  a  Rembrandt,  a 
Correggio,  a  Titian,  a  Honthorst,  and  two 
Canalettos.  There  are  the  punctual  carvings  by 
Grinling  Gibbons  in  Charles  II.'s  dining-room 
and  elsewhere.  Other  outstanding  articles  are 
the  jewelled  throne  once  belonging  to  the  King 
of  Candy;  the  armour  of  the  King's  Champion, 
that  obsolete  but  picturesque  functionary;  and 
the  portraits  of  all  the  winners  of  Waterloo,  at 
[290] 


Royal  Windsor 

home  and  in  the  fields  except  any  private  sol- 
diers. 

On  leaving  the  castle  I  walked  an  incredible 
number  of  miles  down  an  impeccably  straight 
road  to  the  equestrian  statue  that  stands  out  so 
bravely  against  the  sky  on  the  hill  that  closes  the 
vista:  Snow  Hill.  The  statue  is  of  George  III., 
and  it  is  a  fine  bold  thing.  Not  in  the  same  class 
with  Verrocchio's  bronze  horseman  in  Venice,  or 
Donatello's  bronze  horseman  in  Padua,  but  im- 
pressive by  its  bigness  and  superior  to  either  of 
those  masterpieces  in  its  site,  which  is  not,  how- 
ever, so  commanding  as  that  eminence  at  Valley 
Forge  which  is  dominated  by  Anthony  Wayne 
on  his  metal  steed.  And  then  I  found  a  really 
good  confectioner's,  whose  first  two  initials  cor- 
respond startlingly  to  my  own,  and,  in  the  com- 
pany of  frozen  Etonians  not  less  greedy  than 
I,  ate  little  pots  of  jam  until  it  was  time  to  catch 
the  train. 


[291] 


VIII 
THREE   LITTLE   BACKWATERS 

I  WAS  saying  just  now  something  in  praise  of 
the  museum  of  London's  streets:  how  much 
entertainment  it  offered  to  the  eyes  of  soldiers 
on  leave.  But  whether  or  not  soldiers  valued 
it,  there  is  no  such  inveterate  or  more  curious 
wanderer  in  that  museum  than  myself,  and  I 
wish  I  had  more  time  to  spend  in  it.  So  many 
discoveries  to  make !  I  have,  for  example,  but 
now  stumbled  upon  Meard  Street.  I  was  pass- 
ing through  Wardour  Street,  and  noting  how  the 
old  curiosity  shops  are  giving  way  to  cinema 
companies  (in  the  window  of  one  of  which  a 
waxen  Charlie  Chaplin  in  regal  robes  is  being 
for  ever  photographed  by  a  waxen  operator 
whose  hand  turns  the  wheel  from  dawn  to  dusk 
— a  symbol  of  perpetual  "motion"),  when  sud- 
denly I  noticed,  running  eastwards,  a  little  row 
of  pure  eighteenth-century  fa9ades.  It  was 
Meard  Street,  and,  passing  along  it,  I  examined 
these  survivals  of  the  London  of  Johnson  and 
Sterne  with  delight,  so  well  preserved  are  they, 
with  their  decorated  portals  intact,  and  in  two 
or  three  cases  the  old  pretty  numbers  still  re- 
[2921 


Three  Little  Backwaters 

maining.  Why  I  mention  Sterne  is  for  the  rea- 
son that  it  was  in  Meard  Street  (according  to 
the  invaluable  Wheatley  and  Cunningham's 
"London,  Past  and  Present,"  which  sadly  needs 
expanding)  that  Kitty  Fourmantel,  the  fair 
friend  of  the  author  of  "Tristram  Shandy," 
lived;  and  it  does  not  decrease  the  pleasure  of 
dallying  here  to  see,  in  fancy,  the  lean  figure 
of  that  most  unclerical  of  clerks  in  Holy  Orders 
hurrying  along  to  pay  her  his  respects.  Wheat- 
ley  and  Cunningham  can  tell  us  only  of  two  old 
Meard  Streetians,  the  other  being  an  architect, 
new  to  me,  named  Batty  Langley,  and  even  then 
their  house  numbers  are  not  given.  It  would 
be  no  unamusing  task  for  an  antiquary  with  hu- 
man instincts  to  dig  and  delve  until  he  had  re- 
peopled  every  residence. 

My  second  little  street  —  disregarded  by 
Wheatley  and  Cunningham  altogether — has  only 
just  come  into  my  own  consciousness:  Good- 
win's Court,  which  runs  from  St.  Martin  his 
lane  to  Bedfordbury.  It  is  not  a  street  at  all, 
merely  an  alley,  one  side  of  which,  the  south,  is 
the  least  Londonish  row  of  dwellings  you  ever 
saw,  and  the  other  side  is  the  back  doors  of  the 
houses  on  the  south  of  New  Street — that  busiest 
and  cheerfullest  of  old-world  shopping  centres, 
where  Hogarth's  ghost  still  walks.  New  Street 
is  famous  in  literature  by  reason  of  the  "Pine 

[293] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

Apple"  eating-house  where  Dr.  Johnson  in  his 
penury  dined  regularly  for  eightpence:  six- 
pennyworth  of  meat,  one  pennyworth  of  breads 
and  a  penny  for  the  waiter,  receiving  better  at- 
tention than  most  of  the  clients  because  the 
penny  for  the  waiter  was  omitted  by  them. 
Take  it  all  round.  New  Street  (which  has  not 
been  new  these  many  decades)  is  not  so  differ- 
ent now,  the  small  tradesman  being  the  last 
thing  in  the  world  to  change. 

But  it  was  of  Goodwin's  Court  that  I  was 
going  to  write,  and  of  its  odd  houses — for  each 
one  is  like  the  last,  not  only  architecturally  but 
through  the  whim  of  the  tenants  too,  each  one 
having  a  vast  bow  window,  and  each  window  be- 
ing decorated  with  a  muslin  curtain,  in  front  of 
which  is  a  row  of  pots  containing  a  flowerless 
variety  of  large-leaved  plant,  created  obviously 
for  the  garnishing  of  such  unusual  spaces. 
Where  these  strange  plants  have  their  indigen- 
ous homes  I  cannot  say — I  am  the  least  of 
botanists  — nor  do  I  particularly  care;  but  what 
I  do  want  to  know  is  when  their  beauty,  or 
lack  of  it,  first  attracted  a  dweller  in  Good- 
win's Court  and  why  his  taste  so  imposed  itself 
on  his  neighbours.  But  for  this  depressing 
foliage  I  should  not  mind  living  in  Goodwin's 
Court  myself,  for  it  is  quiet  and  central — not 
more  than  a  few  yards  both  from  the  West- 
[294] 


Three  Little  Backwaters 

minster  County  Court  and  several  theatres.  But 
it  would  be  necessary  for  peace  of  mind  first  to 
find  out  who  Goodwin  was. 

My  third  little  street,  which  also  is  an  alley 
untrodden  by  the  foot  of  horse,  is  not  a  new 
discovery  but  an  old  resort:  Nevill's  Court, 
running  eastwards  off  Fetter  Lane,  the  Nevill 
(if  Wheatley  and  Cunningham  tell  the  truth) 
being  Ralph  Nevill,  Bishop  of  Chichester,  in 
the  thirteenth  century:  much  of  the  property 
about  here,  it  seems,  being  still  in  the  possession 
of  that  see.  The  great  charm  of  Nevill's  Court 
is  that  it  has,  right  in  the  midst  of  the  printing 
world,  gardens ;  within  sound  of  countless  print- 
ing presses,  the  Nevill  Courtiers  can  grow  their 
own  vegetables.  Each  house  has  its  garden, 
while  the  centre  house,  a  stately  double-fronted 
Jacobean  mansion,  has  quite  a  big  one.  The 
Court  has  also  a  fruiterer's  shop,  presided  over 
by  one  of  the  most  genial  and  corpulent  fruiter- 
ers— I  almost  wrote  the  fruitiest  fruiterers — in 
the  world  (what  a  wonderful  word  "fruiterer" 
is!),  and  a  Moravian  chapel.  But  these  things 
are  as  nothing.  The  most  precious  treasures  of 
Nevill's  Court  that  I  observed  as  I  walked 
through  it  one  day  in  late  February  were  its 
buds.  On  each  shrub  in  each  garden  were  au- 
thentic green  buds:  trustworthy  promises  that 
some   day   or   other   another   spring  was   really 

[295] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

coming.  And  they  were  the  first  buds  I  had 
seen.  It  is  an  exciting  experience,  worthy  of 
London,  that  one's  first  earnest  of  the  renais- 
sance should  be  given  by  a  court  ofi"  Fetter  Lane. 


[296] 


IX 

A  SELF-MADE  STATUE 

NOT  the  least  of  the  Zoological  Gardens' 
many  attractions  is  their  inexhaustibility. 
There  is  always  something  new,  and — what  is 
not  less  satisfactory — there  is  always  something 
old  that  you  had  previously  missed.  How  is 
that.''  How  is  it  that  one  may  go  to  the  Zoo  a 
thousand  times  and  consistently  overlook  one  of 
its  most  ingratiating  denizens,  and  then  on  the 
thousand-and-first  visit  come  upon  this  creature 
as  though  he  were  the  latest  arrival? 

There  the  quaint  little  absurdity  was,  all  that 
long  while,  as  ready  to  be  seen  as  to-day,  but 
you  never  saw  him,  or,  at  any  rate,  you  never 
noticed  him.     The  time  was  not  yet. 

Yesterday,  for  me,  the  hour  of  the  Prairie 
Marmot  struck. 

I  had  been  watching  a  group  of  wounded 
soldiers  drifting  round  the  Zoo.  It  was  very 
hot,  and  they  were  bored.  They  stopped  at 
each  cage,  it  is  true,  but  with  only  a  perfunc- 
tory interest  in  most;  but  when  suddenly  one  of 
the  little  free  squirrels  made  his  appearance 
in  the  middle  of  a  path,  a  galvanic  current  ran 

[297] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

through  them,  and  their  visit  to  the  Zoo  be- 
came an  event.  Every  member  of  the  company 
made  an  individual  effort  to  coax  and  conciliate 
the  little  scamp;  but  in  vain.  The  squirrel  had 
the  time  of  its  life.  It  went  through  its  whole 
repertory  of  rapidities  and  evasions.  It  ap- 
proached, and  then,  with  lightning  swiftness,  re- 
treated. It  sat  up  and  it  crouched ;  it  waved 
its  tail  and  was  waved  by  it.  It  looked  a  thou- 
sand ways  at  once.  It  was  shy  and  it  was  bold, 
but  it  was  never  bold  enough ;  no  soldier,  with 
whatever  outstretched  bribe,  could  ever  quite 
get  it.  There  is,  however,  caprice  in  these 
matters,  for  when  a  lieutenant  who  had  been 
looking  on  stooped  down  and  held  out  a  nut, 
the  squirrel  instantly  took  it  and  sat  perfectly 
still  beside  him  while  eating  it. 

No  doubt  the  squirrel  takes  a  pleasure  in  its 
capricious  flirtations  with  danger,  but  certain  it 
is  that  it  would  lose  very  little  fun  and  no  food 
at  all  if  it  were  always  friendly;  while  the  joy 
and  excitement — I  am  sure  excitement  is  the 
word — of  the  lords  of  creation  and  their  families 
who  visit  the  Zoo  would  be  enormously  greater. 

Moving  on,  I  was  conscious,  for  the  first  time, 
of  the  Prairie  Marmot. 

Countless  are  the  times  that  I  have  passed 
the  enclosure  which,  though  the  Prairie  Marmot 
shares  it  with  the  grey  squirrel,  its  North  Ameri- 
[298] 


A  Self-Made  Statue 

can  compatriot,  really  belongs  to  neither  of 
them,  but  to  pigeons  and  sparrows.  No  doubt 
you  know  this  enclosure;  it  has  on  one  side  of 
it  the  aquarium  where  the  diving-birds  pursue 
their  live  prey  with  such  merciless  zest  and 
punctuality  every  day  at  12  and  5,  and  on  the 
other  is  the  sculptured  group  of  the  giant  negro 
in  conflict  with  the  angry  mother  of  cubs. 

Coming  unconsciously  upon  this  enclosure,  I 
was  suddenly  aware  of  the  oddest  statuette. 
Pigeons,  squirrels,  and  sparrows  were  moving 
restlessly  about  in  the  eternal  quest  for  food, 
and  in  their  midst,  obviously  made  of  stone,  al- 
though coloured  to  resemble  fur,  was  the  rigid 
effigy,  some  ten  inches  high,  of  as  comic  a  crea- 
ture as  a  human  artist  ever  designed.  There 
this  figure  stood,  without  a  flicker.  And  then, 
a  small  girl  with  a  bag  approaching  the  railings, 
he  came  to  life  in  a  flash,  the  perpendicular 
suddenly  gave  way  to  the  horizontal,  and  he 
trotted  down  to  meet  her  much  as  any  other 
rodent  would  do. 

The  Prairie  Marmot  is  a  rat-like  creature,  but 
blunter,  stockier,  twice  as  big,  and  light  brown 
in  colour.  The  learned,  of  course,  after  their 
wont,  know  him  by  a  lengthier  and  more  impos- 
ing name.  Dr.  Chalmers  Mitchell,  for  example, 
who  controls  the  Zoo  so  ably  and  with  such 
imagination,  would  never   say  Prairie  Marmot 

[299] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

on  those  occasions  when  he  has  questions  to  ask 
as  to  its  well-being  in  captivity.  Nothing  so 
commonplace.  "And,  by  the  "way,"  he  would 
add,  having  been  satisfied  as  to  the  good  health 
of  the  elephants  and  the  water-beetles,  the  ava- 
davats  and  the  hartebeests, — "and,  by  the  way, 
how  is  the  Cynomys  Ludovicianus?  Does  he 
seem  to  thrive.''  Does  he  prosper  and  mul- 
tiply, or  is  the  competition  of  the  Columba 
Londiniensis"  (meaning  the  Metropolitan 
pigeon)  "too  much  for  him?"  But,  whatever 
you  call  him,  the  Prairie  Marmot  remains  a 
most  ingratiating  creature,  and  when  you  see 
him  with  his  two  tiny  hands  holding  a  monkey- 
nut  and  consuming  it  with  eager  bites  you  feel 
that  it  must  have  been  for  him  that  the  well- 
worn  phrase,  "to  sit  up  and  take  nourishment," 
was  coined. 

In  th'  unimportant  intervals  between  these 
two  actions — this  vertical  eating  and  the  sudden 
transformation  of  himself  into  stone,  which  is 
his  greatest  gift  and  which  he  does  so  often 
that  he  has  worn  his  poor  tail  into  a  threadbare 
stump — the  Prairie  Marmot  is  of  no  particular 
interest.  He  just  creeps  about  or  disappears 
into  his  crater  in  the  bank.  But  as  his  own 
statue — so  perfect  as  not  only  to  be  the  despair 
but  the  bankruptcy  of  sculptors — he  is  terrific. 
And  the  change  is  so  swift.  One  moment  he  is 
[300] 


A  Self-Made  Statue 

on  all  fours,  and  the  next  he  is  a  rock,  as  though 
a  magician  had  waved  his  wand. 

Henceforth  no  visit  to  the  Zoo  will  be,  to 
me,  complete  without  a  few  minutes'  contempla- 
tion of  the  Cynomys  Ludovicianus  in  his  quick- 
change  turn. 


[son 


X 

CROWDS— AND  A  BAD  SAMARITAN 

PRACTICAL  jokers  wishing  to  collect  a 
crowd — and  this  has  always  been  one  of 
their  choicest  efForts^stand  still  and  intent, 
gazing  upwards.  Even  before  the  aeroplane 
was  invented  no  lure  was  so  powerful  as  this. 
In  a  few  minutes  hundreds  of  people  will  as- 
semble, all  looking  up,  while  the  humorist  melts 
away.  Probably  were  London  a  city  of  the 
blind  there  would  be  no  concourses  at  all,  for 
it  is  to  see  that  brings  us  together.  Crowds 
are  always  looking. 

I  came  upon  two  little  compact  knots  of  peo- 
ple the  other  day,  in  both  of  which  I  was 
struck  by  the  unanimity  with  which  every  eye 
was,  literally,  fixed  on  the  same  object.  Both 
crowds  consisted  wholly  of  men :  twenty-five 
perhaps,  watching,  in  Aldwych,  a  girl  motor- 
mechanic  at  work  on  a  broken  car ;  while  close 
by,  another  knot  surrounded  a  Human  Marvel — 
a  red-headed  boy  who,  lacking  arms,  had  trained 
his  feet  to  inscribe  moral  sentiments  in  coloured 
chalks  on  a  slate;  which,  for  feet,  is  a  marvel- 
lous thing. 
CSOS] 


Crowds — and  a  Bad  Samaritan 

As  I  watched  all  these  people  with  hungry 
eyes  and  time  to  spare,  I  reflected  on  the 
generosity  of  this  great  London  of  ours  in  the 
matter  of  side-shows,  so  that  there  is  always 
something  for  the  loiterer  to  look  at.  During 
the  War  the  soldier  on  leave,  with  too  much 
time  on  his  hands  and  no  British  Museum  to 
beguile  him  (for  it  was  then  closed),  having 
to  find  his  own  British  Museum  in  the  streets, 
was  rarely  disappointed  of  entertainment.  Arm- 
less Wonders  may  be  rare,  but  there  was  certain 
to  be  a  road-mender  at  work  in  one  spot  and  a 
horse  down  in  another,  so  all  was  well !  As 
for  me,  I  like  to  become  a  member  of  a  crowd 
as  much  as  anybody,  but  the  Armless  Wonder's 
poor  toes  looked  so  desperately  cold  on  this 
particular  nipping  day  that  sheer  personal  dis- 
comfort urged  me  onwards.  But  for  that  I 
might  be  there  still. 

The  temper  of  crowds  indicates  that  man- 
kind in  the  lump  is  genial  stuff.  When  stand- 
ing among  our  fellows,  watching  whatever 
"cynosure"  has  been  provided  by  the  Mother  of 
Cities,  even  the  worst  of  us  become  innocent: 
very  children  for  inquisitiveness.  Our  com- 
munity of  curiosity  leads  to  such  an  extreme 
as  the  exchange  of  remarks.  The  mere  fact 
that  two  strangers  are  looking  at  the  same  thing, 
though  it  be  only  an  asphalt-boilers'  cauldron, 

[303] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

brings  them  into  harmony,  and  for  the  mo- 
ment (or  hour  and  a  half)  they  are  not  strang- 
ers but  friends.  Then,  at  last  tearing  them- 
selves away,  they  freeze  again.  Alas,  for  this 
tearing  away !  The  saddest  thing  about  every 
crowd  is  that  it  has,  some  time,  some  day,  to 
dissolve.  Roads  are  mended,  horses  get  on  their 
legs  again,  men  recover  from  fits.  Hence  eyes 
that  arrived  expectant  sooner  or  later  will  be 
satiated.     That  is  our  tragedy. 

But  crowds,  although  normally  amiable,  can 
be  ugly  too,  and  very  changeable.  A  friend  of 
mine,  who  is  of  a  high  adventurous  impulsive- 
ness and  brimming  with  humanity,  had  a  taste 
of  the  mob's  caprice,  when  from  sheer  kind- 
heartedness  he  assumed  one  evening,  in  Pic- 
cadilly Circus,  the  care  of  a  homing  Scotch 
soldier  who,  in  an  expressive  idiom,  had  become 
by  reason  of  too  much  conviviality  "lost  to  the 
wide." 

Never  was  a  brave  warrior  more  in  need  of 
a  helper,  and  my  friend  threw  himself  into 
the  task  with  a  zest  and  thoroughness  that  should 
place  him  high  in  any  decently-constructed 
Honours  List.  With  infinite  difficulty  the 
journey  to  Euston  was  performed,  by  lift  and 
tube,  by  pullings  and  pushings,  by  shakings  and 
holdings-up,   by   entreaty   and   threat. 

But  a  point  was  reached,  in  the  station  it- 
[304] 


Crowds — and  a  Bad  Samaritan 

self,  where  the  man  lay  down  with  a  super- 
natural solidity  that  no  outside  effort  could 
affect.  Such  efforts  as  had  to  be  made  were  the 
signal  for  the  crowd  to  arrive,  and  arrive  it  did. 
So  far,  however,  from  giving  my  friend  any 
assistance  or  sympathy,  let  alone  admiration 
for  his  quixotry  and  public  spirit,  this  particular 
crowd  instantly  took  hold  of  the  situation  by 
the  wrong  handle  and  assumed  an  attitude  of 
hostility  and  censure.  "Hitting  him  when  he's 
down!"  said  one.  "I  call  it  disgusting,"  said 
another,  "giving  soldiers  drink  like  that." 
"That's  a  nice  thing,  to  make  the  poor  fellow 
drunk !"  said  a  third.  "Ought  to  be  ashamed  of 
himself,"  said  a  fourth,  "giving  drink  to  our 
brave  lads !" — and  the  chorus   grew. 

My  friend  tells  me  that  he  was  never  so 
astonished  in  his  life;  and  truly  it  is  a  comic 
situation — to  give  up  one's  time  and  strength 
in  order  to  act  the  Good  Samaritan  to  an  un- 
fortunate victim,  and  then  be  accused  of  being 
the  victimizer.  He  was  angry  then,  but  he 
laughs  now,  and  I  wish  you  could  hear  him  tell 
the  story. 


[305] 


XI 

BEFORE  AND  AFTER 

TO  my  astonishment  I  could  find  no  trace 
of  the  old  publishing  house  which  I  had  so 
often  visited ;  nothing  but  scaffolding  and  board- 
ings. Like  so  many  London  premises  it  had 
"come  down"  almost  in  a  night.  But  my  resent- 
ment was  a  little  softened  when  looking  through 
the  chinks  between  the  boards  I  discovered  that 
the  supplanting  building  was  to  be  a  theatre.  I 
could  see  the  bare  bones  of  an  auditorium,  the 
deep  foundations  for  the  stage  and  so  forth. 
And  as  I  stood  peering  there  I  tried  to  realise 
some  of  the  excitement  and  fun  which  were  to 
be  engendered  among  those  girders  and  stones, 
so  soon  to  be  animated  by  that  blend  of  mirth 
and  thrills  which  makes  a  theatrical  night's 
entertainment?  To-day  the  place  was  a  wilder- 
ness ;  to-morrow  crowds  would  be  gathered  there. 
How  bright  would  be  the  lights,  how  gay  the 
music,  how  the  walls,  now  mere  skeletons,  would 
echo  and  re-echo  to  laughter  and  applause ! 

All  new  building  is  exciting,  but  there  was 
something  peculiarly   attractive  in   the  thought 
that  this  great  hole  in  the  ground  was,  when  ul- 
[306] 


Before  and  After 

timately  enclosed  by  its  bricks  and  mortar  and 
decoration^  to  be  a  friendly  playhouse. 

What  so  cheerless  as  iron  girders  and  scaffold 
poles?  What  so  enkindling  as  the  overture  to  a 
play  in  a  crowded,  anticipatory  theatre? 

As  I  stood  at  the  opening  in  the  hoarding, 
thinking  these  thoughts  and  becoming  every  mo- 
ment an  object  of  deeper  suspicion  to  a  watch- 
ful constable,  it  was  borne  in  upon  me  that  I 
had  not  so  very  long  ago  witnessed  the  very  an- 
tithesis of  the  present  scene.  I  say  not  so  very 
long  ago,  meaning  distance  in  time;  only  three 
or  four  years.  But  in  history  a  distance  vast 
indeed;  for  that  was  before  the  War,  in  the 
spacious  days  when  travellers  could  leave  Eng- 
land on  an  impulse,  as  they  can  no  more,  and 
passports  were  seldom  needed,  and  France  was 
gay,  and  Italy  was  careless,  and  Louvain  had  a 
library,  and  sovereigns  were  made  not  of  paper 
but  of  gold.  Strange,  remote  Utopian  period! 
At  that  time  when  I  had  so  different  a  spectacle 
before  my  eyes,  I  was  in  that  beautiful  land 
where  decay  is  lovely  too — I  mean,  of  course, 
Italy — and  the  particular  part  of  Italy  was 
the  brown  city  of  Verona,  at  which  I  was  stop- 
ping for  a  few  hours  on  the  way  from  Venice, 
to  see  the  ruins  of  the  Roman  theatre. 

These  ruins  can  for  several  reasons  very  eas- 
ily be  overlooked  by  travellers.     One  is  that  the 

[S07] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

lure  of  the  Coliseum  is  so  powerful;  another, 
that  the  wonderful  church  of  S.  Zcno  must  first 
be  visited,  and  there  is  then  often  little  time  for 
anything  else  but  the  tombs  of  the  Scaligers 
and  poor  Juliet's  reputed  last  earthly  tabernacle. 
The  Roman  theatre,  moreover,  is  rather  out  of 
the  way;  and,  well,  is  not  the  Coliseum  Roman 
theatre  enough?  So  you  see  how  easy  it  is  not 
to  do  Verona  full  justice.  And  a  further  ob- 
stacle to  the  examination  of  the  theatre's  ruins 
is  that  they  demand  agility  and  endurance  in  no 
meagre  supply,  for  one  has  to  climb  to  great 
heights,  and  leap  chasms  and  descend  perilously, 
like  a  mountain  goat.  And  Verona  is  usually 
exceedingly  hot. 

Yet  no  one  visiting  Verona  should  miss  this 
ghost  of  a  playhouse,  for,  having  seen  it,  another 
gap  in  one's  mental  picture  of  Roman  civilisa- 
tion is  filled.  It  is  there  possible  to  visualize 
the  audience  arriving,  traversing  the  long  pas- 
sages in  search  of  their  seats,  recognising  theif 
friends,  jesting  in  their  saturnine  way,  and  then 
sitting  down  to  the  joys  of  the  performance. 
Terence  and  Plautus  at  Westminster  thereafter 
should  become  twice  as  interesting. 

Ruined  as  it  is,  the  theatre  yet  retains  enough 

for  the  imagination  to  build  upon,  and  it  illus-. 

trates,  too,  the  stationary  character  of  dramatic 

architecture.      Upon    the    ancient    scheme    our 

[308] 


Before  and  After 

modern  erectors  of  theatres  have  grafted  only 
trifling  inessential  modifications;  the  main  lines 
are  the  same.  Possibly  if  anything,  there  has 
been  a  decline,  for  one  thinks  of  a  Roman  ar- 
chitect as  being  thorough  enough  to  test  the  view 
of  the  stage  from  every  point  of  the  house, 
whereas  in  England  there  are,  I  am  sure,  ar- 
chitects who  have  never  thought  it  worth  while 
to  visit  the  gallery. 

Given  the  opportunity  of  mingling  in  some 
supernatural  way  with  a  crowd  of  the  past  there 
would  be  many  selections  as  to  the  most  thrilling 
moment.  This  one  would  choose  the  occasion  of 
Marc  Antony's  oration  over  Caesar's  body,  that 
the  execution  of  Robespierre ;  a  third  would  vote 
for  a  general's  triumph  at  Athens ;  a  fourth  for 
Nelson's  funeral  at  St.  Paul's ;  and  still  another, 
greatly  daring,  might  name  a  certain  trial  scene 
in  Jerusalem.  These,  however,  represent  the 
choice  of  the  specialists  in  human  emotions  and 
historic  frissons.  Many  of  the  more  ordinary  of 
us  would,  I  conjecture,  elect  to  join  the  crowd 
of  the  past  at  the  play;  for  what,  they  would 
hold,  could  be  more  interesting  than  to  make  one 
of  the  audience  at  the  first  night  of  "Hamlet," 
or  "Le  Bourgeois,"  or  "Cato"  or  "She  Stoops 
to  Conquer,"  or  "The  School  for  Scandal".'' 
Whether  the  differences  or  resemblances  to  our- 
selves would  be  the  more  striking  is  a  question; 

[309] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

but  I  fancy  the  resemblances.  And  I  fancy  that 
such  would  still  be  the  case  could  one  be  spirited 
back  across  the  centuries  and  be  set  down  in  this 
Verona  theatre  at  some  gala  performance.  For 
human  nature's  reluctance  to  change  is  never 
more  manifest  than  in  the  homes  of  the  drama, 
and  the  audience  in  this  embryonic  playhouse 
in  the  London  street  whose  name  escapes  me 
and  the  audience  in  that  crumbling  abode  of 
lizards  beneath  the  burning  sun  of  Verona  would 
probably  be  astonishingly  alike. 


[310] 


XII 

THE  GREEN  AMONG  THE  GREY 

THE  London  plane  has  a  special  advantage 
over  other  trees  in  growing  where  it  is 
most  wanted.  The  maimed  elms  of  Kensington 
Gardens,  for  example,  grow  where  already  there 
is  a  waste  of  greenery,  but  the  plane  trees 
which  I  have  particularly  in  my  mind  at  this 
moment  grow  among  bricks  and  brush  the  sides 
of  houses  with  their  branches.  From  a  balloon 
the  leaves  of  these  trees,  making — from  that 
altitude,  immediately  above — verdant  pools 
among  the  red  and  grey  of  the  roofs,  must  strike 
the  eye  very  soothingly.  In  no  balloon  have  I 
ever  set  foot,  and  hope  not  to,  but  having  as- 
cended St.  Paul's  and  other  eminences  I  am 
familiar  with  something  of  the  same  effect. 

Looking  down  on  London  from  a  great  height 
in  the  City — from  the  Monument,  say — the 
impression  received  is  a  waste  of  blackened 
grey  with  infrequent  and  surprising  spots  of 
herbage  to  lighten  it.  Looking  down  on  London 
from  a  great  height  in  the  West-end — from  the 

[311] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

campanile  of  the  Westminster  Cathedral,  for 
instance — the  impression  is  of  greenness  first 
and  dark  grey  after,  for  almost  immediately 
below  are  St.  James's  Park  and  Green  Park  and 
the  gardens  of  Buckingham  Palace,  and,  quite 
near,  the  rolling  acres  of  the  Hydi  .  That  is  in 
summer.  In  winter  the  City  prospect  changes, 
for  since  most  of  its  green  is  the  green  of  the 
leaf,  little  but  the  blackened  grey  is  left  through 
the  smoke.  The  western  prospect,  however,  re- 
mains much  the  same,  although  more  sombre, 
for  most  of  its  green  is  the  green  of  grass. 
If  one  would  see  both  scenes  at  their  smilingest, 
but  particularly  the  City,  climb  the  Monument 
(it  has  only  345  of  the  steepest  steps)  in  mid 
May.  For  London's  green  in  mid  May  is  the 
country's  green  in  mid  June,  such  a  hurry  is 
the  Old  Lady  in. 

I  am  not  sure  that  the  occasional  glimpses  of 
her  trees  are  not  the  best.  The  parks  can  be 
perhaps  a  shade  too  monotonously  green:  they 
are  too  big;  they  might  be  in  the  country; 
but  the  delicate  branches  that  feel  for  the 
light  among  the  masonry  have  a  quality  all 
their  own,  given  to  them  largely  by  contrast. 

How  soon  this  forest  city  of  ours  would  revert 

to  the  wild,  if  only  her  citizens  ceased  to  fret 

her  and  keep  Nature  under,  we  had  a  chance  of 

learning  when  the  Aldwych  site  was  laid  bare 

[312] 


The  Green  Among  the  Grey 

some  few  years  since.  Instantly  from  the  ruins 
sprang  a  tangle  of  vegetation,  with  patches  of 
flowers  among  it,  rooting  themselves  in  a  mys- 
terious way  in  nothing  more  nutritious  than 
mortar,  to  the  bewilderment  and  despair  of  all 
passing  gardeners  who  with  such  pains  and  pa- 
tience coax  blossoms  to  flourish  in  prepared  soil. 
Perhaps  an  even  more  striking  instance  of  the 
fertility  of  London  stone  was  observable  when 
the  Stamford  Bridge  gromid  was  reopened  to- 
wards the  end  of  the  War  for  the  American 
baseball  matches,  and  we  found  that,  left  to 
their  own  devices,  the  raised  platforms,  all  of 
solid  concrete,   had  become  terraced  lawns. 

But  the  plane  tree,  who  is  my  hero  at  the 
moment,  awaits  his  eulogy.  It  is  as  though  Na- 
ture, taking  pity  on  commercial  man,  had  given 
him  this  steady  companion  on  his  lonely  money- 
making  way:  "Go,"  said  she  to  the  plane  tree, 
"and  befriend  this  sordid  dufi"er.  No  matter 
how  hard  the  ground,  how  high  the  surrounding 
houses,  how  smoke-covered  the  sun,  how  shat- 
tering the  trafiic,  how  neglectful  the  passers-by, 
I  will  see  that  you  flourish.  It  is  your  mission 
to  alleviate  the  stones.  You  shall  put  forth  your 
leaves  early  and  hold  them  late  to  remind  the 
money-maker  that  life  is  sweet  somewhere,  and 
to  cheer  him  with  the  thought  that  some  day, 

[313] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

when  he  has  made  enough,  and  come  to  his 
senses,  he  may  breathe  sweet  air  again."  ^ 

Nature's  choice  was  very  wise,  for  the  plane 
tree,  above  all  others,  seems  to  have  the  gift  of 
distributing  a  pervading  greenness.  As  well  as 
being  green  itself,  it  tinges  the  circumambient 
atmosphere  with  green.  If  one  doubts  this,  let 
him  visit  Pump  Court  in  the  Temple,  where  two 
trees  absolutely  flood  with  leaves  a  parallelogram 
of  masonry.  But  if  Pump  Court  is  more  than 
lit  by  two  plane  trees,  Cheapside  in  the  sum- 
mer takes  heart  from  one  only — that  famous 
tree  which  springs  from  a  tiny  courtyard  at  the 
corner  of  Wood  Street,  and,  although  lopped 
back  almost  to  a  sign-post  some  few  years  ago, 
is  again  a  brave  portent  of  the  open  world  to  all 
the  merchants  of  Chepe  and  their  customers.  It 
has  been  suggested  that  it  was  the  greenness 
of  this  tree,  a  century  and  more  earlier,  that  at 
this  same  Wood  Street  corner  set  Wordsworth's 
Poor  Susan  upon  her  dream  of  rural  joys. 
Whether  it  is  old  enough  for  that,  I  know  not; 
but  I  like  the  idea. 

Such  is  the  value  of  her  ground  that  London 
City  proper  has  necessarily  to  be  content  with 
minute  oases,  and  travelling  eastwards  one  must 

'Honour  where  honour  is  due;  and  Nature,  it  must 
be  admitted,  has   very  valuable  allies  in  the  Metro- 
politan Public  Gardens  Associations. 
[314] 


The  Green  Among  the  Grey 

go  a  long  way  before  one  comes  to  a  real  ex- 
panse comparable  with  the  pleasures  of  the 
west.  The  cemetery  of  Bunhill  Fields  is  the 
largest  until  Victoria  Park  is  reached — that 
really  necessary  park  which  has  such  hard  us- 
age that  there  are  acres  of  it  without  a  blade 
of  grass  left.  Here  the  East  both  apes  the 
West  and  instructs  it.  There  is  one  lake  here  on 
which  rowing  boats  incessantly  ply,  and  a  motor 
launch  used  to  make  continual  trips  round  an 
island  with  a  Japanese  temple  on  it  for  a  penny 
a  voyage;  and  there  is  another  lake  where  thou- 
sands of  little  East-end  boys  bathe  in  the  sum- 
mer all  day  long.  Now,  the  Serpentine  in  Hyde 
Park  never  had  a  motor  launch,  and  bathing  is 
allowed  in  it  only  before  breakfast  and  at  eve. 

The  best  known  of  London's  parks  come 
where  they  are  not  wanted  exceedingly.  Hyde 
and  St.  James's  and  the  Green  Park  and  Ken- 
sington Gardens  are  all  open  spaces  in  areas 
where  the  streets  are  wide  and  the  rooms  large 
and  light,  and  the  poor  can  use  and  enjoy  them 
only  by  walking  some  distance  to  do  so  and 
then  would  probably  rather  be  on  Hampstead 
Heath  with  its  absence  of  restrictions.  But 
Victoria  Park  is  emphatically  the  right  park  in 
the  right  place.  The  West-enders,  even  without 
their  parks,  would  still  be  healthy  and  moder- 
ately happy;  but  Victoria  Park  must  literally 

[315] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

have  kept  thousands  upon  thousands  of  chil- 
dren alive.  So,  to  a  smaller  extent,  must  Bat- 
tersea  Park.  And  not  long  ago  there  was  a 
movement  afoot — now  perhaps  only  suspended 
— to  make  yet  another  park  where  it  is  wanted: 
at  Shadwell,  on  the  site  of  a  disused  fish  market 
adjoining  the  river  and  the  docks,  where  the 
curiously  squalid  homes  of  Wapping  may  send 
forth  their  children  for  sun  and  air.  The  idea 
was  to  link  the  park  Avith  the  memory  of  King 
Edward  VII.,  and  there  could  not  be  a  wiser 
or  more  beneficent  scheme.  It  is  one,  moreover, 
which  he  with  his  practical  sympathy  would 
have  been  the  first  to  support.  This  park,  if  it 
becomes  a  reality,  will  be  in  one  way  the  best 
of  them  all,  for  it  will  have  a  frontage  on  the 
busy  part  of  the  Thames,  below  the  Pool,  to 
give  the  children  the  sight  of  the  great  ships 
going  by  and  thus  unlock  the  world  for  them. 

Victoria  Park's  very  special  attraction,  to  me, 
is  its  bathing  lake:  one  of  the  wonderful  sights 
of  London  which  very  few  central  Londoners 
and  no  Americans  have  even  seen.  Here  boys 
rollick  and  frolic  in  their  thousands,  all  stark 
and  all  more  than  happy,  with  the  happiness 
that  has  to  be  expressed  by  action — in  shouts 
and  leaps  and  pursuit.  On  the  hot  August 
afternoon  that  I  was  last  there,  the  sun,  sink- 
ing through  a  haze,  turned  these  ragamuffins  to 
[816] 


The  Green  Among  the  Grey 

merboys  and  their  skin  to  glory.  The  water 
is  surrounded  by  trees ;  so  that  the  mean  and 
grimy  streets  which  gave  these  urchins  forth 
and  were  waiting  to  reclaim  them  again  might 
have  been  as  remote  as  Japan. 

It  was  not  only  the  most  surprising  spectacle 
— there,  in  the  East-end — but  the  completest 
triumph  of  nakedness  I  ever  dreamed  of,  for 
with  nakedness  had  come  not  only  beauty,  but 
an  ecstasy  and  irresponsibility  as  of  the  faun. 
"Time  has  run  back  and  fetched  the  Age  of 
Gold,"  I  murmured  as  I  watched  them  in  their 
joy,  gleaming  and  glistening.  And  then,  half 
an  hour  after,  as  I  sat  by  the  path  outside  this 
enchanted  pool  and  watched  them  returning 
home,  with  their  so  lately  radiant  bodies  covered 
with  dirty  clothes,  and  their  little  sleek,  round 
heads  shapeless  with  half-dried  hair,  and  the 
horse-play  of  the  arid  park  taking  the  place  of 
the  primeval  gaieties  and  raptures  of  the  water, 
I  knew  that  the  Age  of  Gold  had  passed. 


[317:! 


XIII 
THE  FATHERLY  FORCE 

LONDON  may  be  "the  stony-hearted  step- 
mother" that  De  Quincey  called  her  but 
Londoners  are  not  necessarily  neglected  orphans 
because  of  that.  So  long  as  one  policeman  re- 
mains, we  shall  never  be  fatherless. 

If  I  were  Miss  Jane  Taylor  of  Ongar  I  should 
put  the  following  questions  into  melodious  and 
easily-memorised  verse ;  but  instead  they  are 
in  prose.  Who  is  it,  when  we  are  lost,  that  tells 
us  the  way,  always  extending  an  arm  as  he  does 
so  ?  The  policeman.  Who  is  it  that  knows 
where  the  nearest  chemist's  is?  The  policeman. 
Who,  when  we  are  in  danger  of  being  run 
over  if  we  cross  the  road,  lifts  a  hand  like  a 
York  ham  and  cleaves  a  path  for  us.''  The 
policeman.  At  night,  when  we  have  lost  the 
latch-key,  who  is  it  that  effects  an  entrance  (I 
borrow  his  own  terminology)  through  a  window  ? 
The  policeman.  The  tale  of  his  benefactions  is 
endless. 

Two  American  girls  recently  in  London  spent 
much  of  their  time  in  pretending  to  an  igno- 
[318] 


The  Fatherly  Force 

ranee  of  the  city,  entirely  (they  confessed)  in 
order  to  experience  the  delight  of  conversing 
with  constables;  and  a  lady  once  told  me  that 
the  nicest  men  she  had  ever  met  (and  she  saw 
them  every  week)  were  the  policemen  in  the  Lost 
Umbrella  Office  on  the  Embankment.  I  believe 
it.  I  have  the  same  feeling  when  I  go  there, 
and  it  bewilders  me,  remembering  these  fas- 
cinating officials,  to  think  that  the  Foreign 
Offijce  ever  has  any  difficulty  in  appointing 
Ambassadors.  Yet  these  too,  with  all  their  sym- 
pathy and  suavity  and  sweet  reasonableness,  are 
policemen  au  fond.  For  the  dark  blue  uniform 
is  very  powerful  and  every  man  who  dons  the 
white  worsted  glove  finds  his  hand  turning  to 
iron  beneath  it.  Whatever  he  may  have  been 
before  the  Force  absorbed  him,  he  will  hence- 
forward side  with  order  against  disorder,  with 
respectability  against  Bohemianism,  with  so- 
briety against  vinous  jollity.  And  yet  the  police- 
men make  their  allowances.  I  watched  four 
of  them  the  other  day  frog-marching  a  very 
"voilent"  (as  they  always  say  in  their  eW- 
dence  the  next  morning)  reprobate  from  Bur- 
leigh Street  to  Bow  Street.  During  the  struggle 
he  distributed  some  vicious  kicks,  but  I  could  not 
determine  by  the  constables'  attitude,  though 
they  would,  no  doubt,  have  preferred  a  more 
tractable   captive,    that   they    felt   any    grudge 

[319] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

towards  him  or  thought  him  any  worse  than 
a  meeker  delinquent. 

Althougli  in  real  life  the  policeman  is  so 
monumentally  respectable  and  solid^  on  the  stage 
he  is  never  anything  but  comic.  A  kiss  for 
Cinderella  to  some  extent  qualifies  this ;  for  the 
constable  there  with  the  "infalliable"  system 
was  romantical  as  well.  But,  generally  speak- 
ing, a  policeman's  part  is  a  comic  part,  and 
must  be  so.  Tradition  is  too  strong  for  any- 
thing else.  Too  many  clowns  in  too  many 
harlequinades  have  wreaked  their  mischievous 
will  on  him.  Hence,  whatever  the  play,  directly 
we  see  him  we  begin  to  laugh;  for  we  know 
that  though  the  uniform  is  honourable  the  voice 
will  be  funny.  But  in  real  life  the  police  are 
serious  creatures,  while  during  the  first  three 
days  of  Armistice  week,  when  they  had  to  stand 
by  and  watch  all  kinds  of  goings-on  for  which 
no  one  was  to  be  whopped,  they  were  pathetic, 
too.  Seldom  can  they  have  been  so  unhappy  as 
when  the  bonfire  was  burning  in  the  middle  of 
Cockspur  Street,  an^  nothing  could  be  done,  or 
was  permitted  to  be  done. 

London,  I  maintain,  has  few  sublimer  sights 
than  a  policeman  doing  his  duty.  I  saw  one 
yesterday.  The  window  of  the  room  wliich  is 
principally  devoted  to  my  deeds  of  inkshed  looks 
upon  a  point  where  four  roads  meet,  on  three 
[320] 


The  Fatherly  Force 

of  which  are  omnibus  routes.  This  means  that 
there  is  never  any  lack  of  moving  incident 
whenever  I  look  out.  Sometimes  there  is  a 
moving  accident,  too.  Yesterday,  for  example, 
hearing  a  warning  call  and  a  crash,  I  was  at  the 
window  in  time  to  see  an  omnibus  and  a  small 
wagon  inextricably  mixed,  and  to  watch  with 
what  celerity  a  crowd  can  assemble.  But  it  was 
not  that  which  drew  the  eye;  it  was  the  steady 
advance  from  a  distant  point  of  one  of  our 
helmeted  fathers.  He  did  not  hurry:  nothing 
but  pursuit  of  the  wicked  fleeing  makes  a  police- 
man run;  but  his  onset  was  irresistible.  Traffic 
rolled  back  from  him  like  the  waters  of  the 
Red  Sea.  When  he  reached  the  scene  of  trouble, 
where  the  motor-driver  and  the  driver  of  the 
wagon  were  in  ecstasies  of  tu  quoque,  while  the 
conductor  was  examining  the  bonnet  for  damage 
and  the  passengers  were  wondering  whether  it 
was  better  to  wait  and  work  out  their  fares  or 
change  to  another  bus — when  he  reached  the 
scene  of  trouble,  he  performed  an  action  which 
never  fails  to  fascinate  me:  he  drew  forth  his 
pocket-book.  There  is  something  very  interest- 
ing in  the  way  in  which  a  policeman  does  this. 
The  gesture  is  mainly  pride,  but  there  is  mis- 
giving in  it,  too:  the  knowledge  that  the  pen 
is  not  as  mighty  as  the  truncheon.  But  the 
pride  is  very  evident:  the  satisfaction  of  Matter 

[321] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

being  seen  in  association  with  Mind,  like  a 
voter  whose  hand  has  been  shaken  in  public  by 
a  titled  candidate.  Policemen  as  a  rule  are 
laborious  writers,  and  this  one  was  true  to  type, 
but  there  is  none  that  comes  nearer  the  author  of 
the  Book  of  Fate.  What  a  policeman  writes, 
goes. 

One  of  the  best  stories  of  the  fatherliness 
of  the  Fatherly  Force  that  I  ever  heard  was 
told  to  me  by  that  elvish  commentator  on  life, 
and  most  tireless  of  modern  Quixotes,  the  late 
Robert  Ross,  Oscar  Wilde's  devoted  friend.  He 
brought  it,  oddly  enough,  from  Russia,  and, 
when  I  urged  him  to  write  it,  with  characteristic 
open-handedness  he  presented  it  to  me. 

The  heroine  was  a  famous  member  of  the 
Russian  Imperial  Ballet  who,  though  she  had 
not  then  danced  in  London — her  genius  being 
too  precious  in  her  own  country — had  been 
here  unprofessionally  as  a  sightseer;  and  it  was 
here  that  the  adventure  which  is  the  founda- 
tion of  this  narrative  befell.  From  her  own  lips, 
at  a  supper  party  in  St.  Petersburg  or  Moscow, 
Ross  had  the  tale,  which  now,  but  lacking  all 
his  personal  enrichments,  I  tell  again. 

The  dancer  when  in  London  had  witnessed 
one  of  our  processions:  the  opening  of  Parlia- 
ment, the  Lord  Mayor's  Show — I  can't  say  what 
— and  she  had  found  herself  at  a  disadvantage 
[322] 


The  Fatherly  Force 

in  the  crowd.  It  is  unusual  for  premieres  dan- 
seuses  to  be  tall,  even  when  they  are  poised  on 
the  very  tips  of  their  conquering  toes;  and  this 
lady  was  no  exception.  The  result  was  that 
she  could  not  see,  and  not  to  be  able  to  see  is 
for  any  woman  a  calamity,  but  for  a  foreign 
woman  a  tragedy :  particularly  so  when  she  is  in 
her  own  country  a  queen,  accustomed  to  every 
kind  of  homage  and  attention.  The  ballerina 
was  at  the  height  of  her  despair  when  one  of 
the  policemen  on  duty  took  pity  on  her,  and  lift- 
ing her  in  his  arms  held  her  up  long  enough  to 
enjoy  the  principal  moments  of  the  pageant. 
From  that  day  onwards,  she  said,  the  London 
policeman  was,  for  her,  the  symbol  of  strength 
and  comfort  and  power.  Gigantic  Cossacks 
might  parade  before  her  all  day,  but  her  true 
god  out  of  the  machine  was  from  Scotland 
Yard.    .    .    . 

A  time  came  when,  to  the  grief  of  her  vast 
public,  she  fell  ill.  The  Tsar's  own  physicians 
attended  her,  but  she  became  no  better^  and  at 
last  it  was  realised  that  an  operation  was  in- 
evitable. Now,  an  operation  is  an  ordeal  which 
a  premiere  danseuse  can  dread  with  as  much  in- 
tensity as  any  one  else,  and  this  poor  little  lady 
was  terrified.  Empresses  of  the  ballet  should  be 
exempted  from  such  trials.     No,  she  vowed,  she 

[323] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

could  never  go  through  with  it.  The  idea  was 
too  frightening. 

"But,"  said  the  first  physician,  "you  must. 
It  will  only  be  a  slight  affair;  you  will  come 
out  of  your  convalescence  better  than  before." 

"Yes,"  said  the  second  physican,  "and  more 
beautiful  than  before." 

"And,"  urged  the  third  physician,  "more  pop- 
ular than  before." 

"And,"  added  the  surgeon,  "you  will  live 
for  ever." 

But  she  still  trembled  and  refused.  ...  It 
was  impossible,  unthinkable.  .   .   . 

Wliat  then  ? 

Well,  let  me  say  at  once  that,  as  a  matter  of 
fact,  she  underwent  the  operation  with  perfect 
fortitude,  and  it  was  a  great  success.  But  how 
do  you  think  she  brought  herself  to  face  it? 
Only  by  tightly  holding  the  white  gloved  hand 
of  a  specially  constructed  doll  of  massive,  even 
colossal,  proportions,  dressed  in  the  uniform  of 
a  London  policeman. 


[324] 


XIV 
MY  FRIEND  FLORA 

HOW  much  is  this  bunch?"  I  asked  of  the 
flower-woman  at  the  corner. 

"A  shilling/'  she  replied,  "but  you  can  have  it 
for  sixpence.     I  hate  the  sight  of  it." 

Now  here  was  an  oddity  in  a  world  of  self- 
centred,  acquisitive  tradespeople:  a  dealer  who 
decried  her  own  wares.  Obviously  flower-women 
can  have  temperaments. 

I  asked  her  what  there  was  about  palm,  as  we 
call  those  branches  of  willow  with  the  fluffy, 
downy  buds  on  them,  that  so  annoyed  her. 

"It's  such  stupid  stuiF,"  she  explained.  "I 
can  understand  people  buying  daffodils  or  tulips 
or  violets,  because  they're  pretty  or  sweet, 
but  not  this  dried-up  stuff  with  the  little 
kittens." 

The  remark  set  me  wondering  to  what  extent 
dealers  in  other  articles  are  perplexed  by  their 
customers'  preferences.  (Some  milliners,  I 
hope.)  For  the  most  part  we  are  encouraged 
by  the  shopkeeper  to  follow  our  own  inclina- 
tions. His  taste  may  be  utterly  different,  but  he 
doesn't  impose  it  on  us;  he  ventures  to  suggest 

[325] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

only  when  there  are  varying  prices  and  we  seem 
unduly  inclined  to  the  lowest.  But  this  old  lady 
was  prepared^  long  before  the  bargaining  stage 
had  set  in^  to  knock  off  fifty  per  cent,  and  tra- 
duce the  goods  as  well.    Surely  a  character. 

"And  that's  not  all/'  she  added.  "What  do 
you  think  a  lady — calls  herself  a  lady — said  to 
me  just  now  when  she  bought  threepenny  worth  ? 
She  said  it  lasted  a  j'ear.  Fancy  telling  a  poor 
flower-woman  that!" 

We  went  on  to  talk  of  her  calling.  I  found 
her  an  "agreeable  blend"  (as  the  tobacconists 
say)  of  humour  and  resignation ;  and  very  prac- 
tical. 

"Why  are  your  flowers/'  I  asked  her,  "so 
much  better  than  the  flowers  of  the  man  the 
other  side  of  the  road.''" 

"Because  he  takes  his  home  at  night/'  she 
said.  "You  should  never  do  that.  If  I've  got 
any  unsold  I  leave  them  at  the  fire-station  and 
then  the3^'re  fresh  in  the  morning.  But  I  don't 
often  have  any  left  over." 

This  was,  I  should  sav,  a  day  of  acute  dis- 
comfort :  it  had  been  bitterly  raining  since  early 
morning,  and  yet  there  was  no  bitterness  in  the 
flower-woman.  She  was  merely  resigned.  Very 
damp,  but  cheerfully  apathetic.  "When  it's  cold 
and  wet  like  this,"  I  asked,  "is  life  worth 
living?" 
[326] 


My  Friend  Flora 

"Of  course/'  was  her  splendid  answer;  "aren't 
there  the  nights?" 

Rather  fine  that — even  if  as  a  commentary  on 
the  wakeful  hours  a  little  acid.  And  for  those 
who  can  sleep,  how  true !  "Aren't  there  the 
nights  ?"  I  must  remember  the  solace  when 
next  the  cynic  or  the  misanthrope  girds  at  sun- 
less noons. 

Of  her  philosophy  she  then  gave  me  another 
taste,  for,  observing  a  great  mass  of  loose  coins, 
many  of  them  silver,  lying  in  the  basket,  I  asked 
if  she  were  not  afraid  of  a  thief  snatching  at  it. 
"Oh,  no,"  she  said.  "But  I  don't  always  have 
it  there.  It's  because  it's  so  wet  to-day.  Count- 
ing helps." 

My  guess  would  have  been  that  although  the 
life  of  flower-women  calls  for  philosophy,  for 
philosophy  to  respond  is  by  no  means  the  rule ; 
and  her  consolation  and  cheerfulness  made  me 
very  happy.  Yet  what  a  penance  much  of  their 
lives  must  be !  First  of  all,  there  is  the  weather. 
Wet  or  fine,  hot  or  cold,  they  must  be  out  in  it, 
and  stationary  at  that.  Wliat  to  place  second 
and  third  I  do  not  know,  but  there  is  the  perish- 
able character  of  the  stock-in-trade  to  be  con- 
sidered, and,  when  fogs  and  frosts  interfere,  the 
chance  of  being  unable  to  collect  any  stock-in- 
trade  at  all.  But  exposure  must  be  the  crucial 
strain. 

[327] 


Adventures  and  Enthusiasms 

The  whole  question  of  this  motionless,  recep- 
tive attitude  to  the  elements  is  interesting  to  me, 
who  catch  cold  several  times  a  day.  How  these 
people  can  stand  it  is  a  constant  mj^stery.  That 
blind  man,  for  instance,  at  the  little  door  of  the 
Temple  just  below  the  Essex  Street  archway — 
ever  since  I  can  remember  London  he  has  been 
there,  with  his  matches,  always  placid,  no  matter 
what  new  buiFetings  Heaven  has  for  him. 

The  blind  in  particular  seem  to  become  in- 
different to  climatic  extremes  ;  and  there  must  be 
in  every  one's  cognizance  two  or  three  immov- 
able sightless  mendicants  defying  rain  and  chill. 
Every  town  in  the  country  has  such  landmarks, 
and  all  seem  to  retain  their  health.  But  I 
recollect  that  the  blind  man  who  used  to  sit  in 
front  of  the  Grand  Hotel  at  Brighton  forty 
years  ago  spelling  out  Holy  Writ,  while  the  dog 
at  his  feet  collected  coppers  in  a  little  box,  al- 
ways in  winter  wore  mittens  and  a  cap  with  ear- 
flaps,  and  had  fingers  red  and  swollen.  Still,  he 
endured.  Whether  with  those  red  and  swollen 
fingers  he  really  deciphered  the  Evangel  or 
merely  repeated  from  memory,  we  never  knew, 
but  I  can  still  hear  the  droning  voice,  "And 
Jesus  said " 

This  insensitiveness  to  January  blasts  and 
February  drenchings  may  be  one  of  the  com- 
pensations that  the  blind  enjoy.  ^Miatever 
[328] 


My  Friend  Flora 

else  happens  to  them  they  never,  perhaps, 
catch  cold.     And  that  is  more  than  something. 

But  how  odd  that  these  stolid,  shabby,  and 
often  rather  battered  old  florists  should  be  the 
middle-men  and  middle-women  between  the 
country  and  the  city,  but  for  whose  indifference 
to  pitiless  skies  so  many  town-dwellers  would 
never  see  a  blossom  at  all !  There  is  nothing  of 
the  country  about  them,  nothing  of  the  garden — 
almost  no  Londoner  less  suggests  the  riot  of 
a  herbaceous  border — and  yet  it  is  they  who 
form  the  link  between  flower-bed  and  street. 

"Well,"  I  said,  grasping  the  bunch  of  palm 
that  the  old  flower-woman  had  sold  me  at  such  a 
sacrifice,  "good-bye;  I  hope  you'll  empty  your 
basket." 

"And  I  hope  you'll  empty  yours,"  she  replied. 

"Mine.''"  I  said,  "I  haven't  got  one." 

"Oh,  yes,  you  have,"  said  Flora;  "every  one's 
got  a  basket,  only  they  don't  always  know  where 
to  take  it." 


The  End 


[329] 


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